THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


w/l 


COLLECTION 


PROSE  AND  POETICAL  WRITINGS 


MARY   L.    GARDINER 


NEW    YORK: 

PRINTED  AND  PUBLISHED  FOR  THE  AUTHOR,  BY 

J.WINCHESTER,    30    ANN    STREET. 
1843. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  by  J.  WINCHESTER,  in  the  Clerk'* 
Office  of  the  Southern  District  of  New  York,  in  the  year  1843. 


BENJAMIN  F.  THOMPSON,  ESQ., 

MY  EARLY  FRIEND  AND  PATRON, 

THIS  VOLUME 

IS    VERT   RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED 


BY   THE   AUTHOR. 


PREFACE. 


IN  committing  a  volume  of  some  hundred  pages  to  the  press,  it 
may  not,  without  reason,  be  expected  that  the  reader  should  be 
favored  with  some  account  of  the  author's  labors,  and  of  the 
reasons  which  may  have  induced  the  publication  of  the  present 
work.  Indeed,  the  explanation  seems  the  more  appropriate,  at 
a  period  when  productions  of  a  similar  character  have  become 
not  only  common,  but,  probably  in  the  opinion  of  the  great  mass 
of  readers,  quite  too  frequent,  to  be  useful.  So  considerable  a 
volume  filled  with  pieces  mostly  poetical,  and  upon  subjects,  many 
of  which  have  scarcely  the  recommendation  of  novelty,  may  seem 
to  demand  some  apology  for  its  intrusion  upon  the  public  in  these 
prosaic  times. 

The  author  of  this  miscellaneous  collection,  (many  parts  of 
which  have  appeared  in  different  publications,)  is,  but  to  a  small 
extent,  known  to  fame,  and  possesses  no  inordinate  ambition 
for  distinction  as  a  writer,  beyond  the  limits  of  her  native  island. 

Feeling,  as  she  does,  her  own  inferiority,  in  comparison  with  a 
host  of  others  whom  it  would  be  easy  to  mention,  it  may  be 
easily  supposed,  that  it  is  not  without  much  hesitation  and 
solicitude,  that  she  submits  her  literary  labors  to  the  judgment  of 
Jin  impartial  community.  The  writer  is  as  sensible  as  the  most 
fastidious  of  her  readers  can  be,  of  the  many  imperfections  which 
exist  in  these  compositions,  and  that  others,  which  she  knows  not  of, 
will  be  discovered,  thereby  exposing  her  performances  (and  justly 
too)  to  the  severity  of  criticism.  She  is  equally  well  assured  that 
the  privileges  of  her  sex  guaranties  no  exemption  from  an  ordeal, 


to  which  all  who  venture  before  the  public  as  authors,  must  sub- 
mit. 

Whether  the  circumstances,  under  which  most  of  her  pieces 
were  composed,  will  be  accepted  as  a  partial  excuse  for  their 
defects,  must  be  left  to  the  candor  and  consideration  of  the  reader. 
It  is,  however,  true,  that  no  idea  of  their  publication  was  origin- 
ally entertained,  beyond,  perhaps,  the  ephemeral  pages  of  a  news- 
paper ;  and  they  are  now  collected  into  a  volume,  more  for  the 
gratification  of  her  friends,  than  from  a  conviction  of  their  possess- 
ing any  intrinsic  value. 

An  almost  Uninterrupted  state  of  ill-health,  of  many  years'  con- 
tinuance, attended  with  a  great  prostration  of  energy,  made  it  impos- 
sible for  her  to  discharge  the  most  ordinary  domestic  duties ;  and 
the  writer  could  only  employ  her  occasional  exemption  from  pain, 
in  such  amusements  as  her  books  and  her  pen  afforded.  Poetry 
has  always  been  to  her  the  most  delightful  species  of  liteiature, 
and  this  propensity  will  account  for  the  preponderance  of  her 
poetical,  over  her  prose  compositions.  The  subject  of  many  of 
them  were,  as  will  be  perceived,  prompted  by  particular  incidents, 
and  written  upon  the  occasions  which  called  them  forth.  A  few 
were  addressed  to  friends,  whose  hearts  had  been  wounded  by  the 
stroke  of  death  within  their  family  circles ;  while  others  were 
composed  upon  the  happening  of  some  event  of  a  more  general 
character.  In  all  instances,  the  writer  has  had  constantly  in  view 
the  cause  of  virtue  and  religion. 

Whatever  value  may  be  attached  to  these  effusions  of  her  pen,  the 
writer  cannot  help  indulging  the  fond  hope  that  the  perusal  may 
yield  a  pleasure  proportionate,  in  some  degree,  to  that  experienced 
in  their  composition. 

In  conclusion,  the  author  cannot  withhold  the  expression  cf 
her  gratitude  to  Heaven,  by  whose  assistance  alone  she  has  been 
enabled  to  prepare  her  materials  for  this  purpose ;  and  she  consoles 
herself  with  the  honest  hope,  that  they  contain  naught  which,  in 
dying,  she  could  wish  to  blot. 

MARY  L.  GARDINER. 
SAO  HARBOR,  L.  I. 


PROSE  AND  POETICAL  WRITINGS 


MARY  L.  GARDINER. 


VICISSITUDE. 


AH,  what  is  our  life  but  a  dream, 

A  shadow  that  passes  away ; 
A  light  which  is  cast  on  the  stream, 

By  moonbeams  that  fitfully  play. 

I  CAME  to  the  halls  of  Cona,  where  all  was  mirth  and  song. 
The  old  man  in  his  pride  sat  gazing  upon  his  children,  while  the 
silver  tresses  shaded  his  brow.  The  mother,  living  again  in  the 
fairy  forms  around  her,  revealed  the  joy  of  her  heart  in  her 
expressive  countenance.  Their  sons  were  like  the  mountain 
oak,  and  their  daughters  like  the  first  roses  of  summer.  The 
sun  rose  biightly  upon  their  habitation,  unobscured  by  a  single 
cloud,  and  descended  in  rayless  majesty  into  the  crystal  wave. 
The  elms  towered  in  the  gusty  air,  and  the  willows  waved  in  the 
gentle  breeze.  Flowers  and  shrubs  emitted  their  sweet  perfume, 
and  the  green  grass  bent  in  beauty  beneath  their  feet.  No  sorrow 
was  there,  for  love  held  its  empire  over  every  heart,  and  the  holy 
chain  of  filial  affection  bound  them  together.  They  were  bright 
and  beautiful  as  the  morning,  and  buoyant  as  the  young  fawns  of 
the  mountain.  They  danced  at  the  sound  of  the  viol  and  guitar, 
while  the  flute  in  its  sweetness  reverberated  over  the  dewy  land- 
scape. From  each  other's  eyes  they  drank  their  fullest  bliss ;  for 
in  their  soft  light  was  mirrored  the  harmony  within,  which  as 
yet  no  blight  had  marred.  Beautiful  structure  !  and  transient 
as  beautiful ! 

Again  I  traversed  the  mountain,  drank  at  the  clear  cascades, 
scrambled  over  the  shelving  clefts,  stood  amid  the  rattling  thun- 
der, and  gazed  upon  the  lightning  as  it  played  fitfully  around  my 
path.  I  saw  the  strong  oak  bend  beneath  the  whirlwind,  and  trees 


10  VICISSITUDE. 

of  lesser  strength  uprooted  by  the  blast.  The  spirit  of  the  storm 
screamed  wildly  as  she  passed,  and  my  ears  were  stunned  by  the 
roar  of  the  elemental  war.  The  music  of  the  tornado  was 
awfully  sublime  and  terrible,  as  it  swept  from  before  it  every  trace 
of  beauty.  Prostrate,  I  lay  upon  the  damp  earth,  and  felt  sensi- 
bly my  connection  with  my  fellow  clay.  Fiercely  the  tempest 
howled,  and  swept  thundering  down  the  sides  of  the  mountain,  at 
the  base  of  which  was  situated  the  dwelling  of  Cona,  and  thither 
I  bent  my  footsteps. 

As  I  approached,  a  kind  of  superstitious  dread  took  possession 
of  my  bosom.  Years  had  passed  away  since  I  was  there,  and  as 
I  mused  amid  the  peltings  of  the  storm,  I  anticipated  a  reverse  of 
what  I  had  witnessed  during  my  first  visit  at  the  house  of  my 
friend.  Hoarsely  the  tempest  shrieked,  and  its  fitful  gusts  hur- 
ried me  forward.  Brown  and  bare  was  the  rock  which,  like  a 
battlement,  protected  the  house  of  Cona;  no  wild  rose  twined  its 
clustering  amis  around  its  craggy  points ;  no  young  violets  reared 
their  timid  heads  amid  the  clefts — all  was  bare  and  barren. 
Closed  were  the  gates,  and  everything,  as  if  awed  to  silence  by 
the  spirit  of  the  storm ,  was  still  as  death.  There  was  something 
awfully  foreboding  in  the  silence  which  enwrapped  every  object — 
as  the  storm  suddenly  became  hushed— so  mysteriously  enervating 
my  whole  system,  that,  as  I  rung  faintly  at  the  door  of  the  man- 
sion, I  leaned  against  the  portico  for  support.  Faintly  as  I  rung, 
the  sound  of  the  bell  came  back  upon  my  ear  unbroken.  Pres- 
ently a  step  approached — the  door  opened,  and  I  was  ushered  into 
the  room  where  I  had  passed  hours  of  unmingled  delight.  "  Has 
the  storm  been  here  ?"  I  exclaimed,  as  I  gazed  around.  "What 
means  this  silence?  Has  a  tempest  more  destructive  than  the 
one  I  have  witnessed  torn  from  their  native  soil  the  beautiful 
blossoms  which  but  yesterday  were  blooming  in  their  dewy  fresh- 
ness ? " 

As  I  mused,  the  aged  parents  entered.  Bent  were  their  totter- 
ing frames,  which  trembled  as  they  drew  near.  They  read  my 
inquiry  in  my  looks,  and,  pressing  my  hand,  motioned  for  me  to 
be  seated.  Sobs,  loud  and  audible,  burst  from  the  broken  heart 
of  the  mother;  while  the  father,  calm,  patient,  and  submissive, 
bowed  to  the  will  of  Heaven,  knowing  that  with  God  there  is  no 
injustice. 

"  Thou  lookest  around,"  he  exclaimed, «« but  what  seest  thou  ? 


VICISSITUDE.  11 

Thou  listenest,  but  what  dost  thou  hear?  -  The  lights  of  my 
dwelling  are  extinct ;  my  birds  of  song  are  mute,  and  their  notes 
of  love  and  joyousness  are  no  longer  heard.  You  found  us  in 
prosperity,  and  left  us  united  and  happy ;  but  the  dark  storm  of 
adversity  overtook  us,  beat  upon  our  bosoms,  desolated  our  hopes, 
frustrated  our  fondest  schemes,  and  blighted  our  sweetest  flowers. 
My  sons,  the  pride  and  glory  of  my  house,  died  in  a  foreign  land ; 
they  fell  in  the  field  of  battle,  their  brows  crowned  with  laurels, 
and  their  life-blood  swelling  the  tide  of  victory  !  My  daughters, 
young  and  beautiful  as  the  morning,  faded  and  died  in  the  dreamy 
month  of  June,  whose  roses  were  not  more  sweet  and  lovely 
than  those  fair  sisters,  who,  hand  in  hand,. wandered  amid  their 
blushing  tints,  training  the  delicate  ones  with  their  transparent 
fingers,  not  less  transient  than  themselves.  The  flute  and  the 
viol  ceased,  the  guitar  quivered  under  their  slight  touch,  as  their 
voices  died  away  like  the  evening  breeze,  leaving  the  world  to 
us  like  the  silence  of  midnight,  unbroken  by  even  the  softest 
murmur." 

Tears  flowed  from  the  old  man's  eyes,  they  gushed  in  streams 
from  his  heartfull  fountain,  and  mingled  with  those  of  the  com- 
panion of  his  declining  years.  What,  thought  1,  are  the  outward 
storms  to  this  ?  Nature  revives  after  the  sweeping  tempest ;  the 
leafy  oak  becomes  more  erect,  and  the  young  shrubs  and  flowers, 
glittering  in  the  rain  drops,  are  again  fragrant  and  flourishing; 
but  where  are  the  lovely,  who  were  once  here  ? 

Transplanted  to  a  purer  clime 

They  bloom  forever,  where 
No  change,  no  storm,  no  coming  time 

Their  beauty  can  impair. 


THE    FORCE    OF    EDUCATION. 


IT  was  a  cold  evening  in  November,  when  Mrs.  Seldon,  seated 
by  a  small  fire,  was  anxiously  waiting  for  her  only  son,  who  had 
left  in  the  morning  to  ascertain  whether  he  could  find  employment 
in  a  counting  house  in  the  city  of  New- York.  Mrs.  Seldon  was 
the  widow  of  a  clergyman,  who  died  when  his  son  was  in  the 
twelfth  year  of  his  age,  leaving  him  and  his  mother  with  a  few 
hundred  dollars,  and  an  excellent  library.  Mr.  Seldon  had  spared 
no  pains  in  Henry's  education ;  and,  at  the  early  age  of  ten  years, 
he  had  become  acquainted,  not  only  with  the  general  rudiments  of 
the  English,  but  had  made  considerable  advancement  in  the  Latin, 
Greek,  and  French  languages.  Henry  Seldon  was  beautiful  as 
the  morning ;  his  eye  was  keen  as  the  young  eagle's,  at  the  same 
time  soft  as  the  beams  of  the  setting  sun.  His  hair  was  black 
and  glossy  as  the  raven's,  his  brow  was  lofty,  his  mouth  sweet 
and  fascinating,  his  nose  aquiline,  and  the  general  contour  of  his 
face  classical.  His  form  was  elegance  and  grace,  and  all  who 
saw  him  loved  him.  His  father  and  mother's  existence  seemed 
identified  with  his;  they  lived  in  their  son,  and  next  to  their 
Saviour,  they  loved  him.  One  Sabbath,  after  Mr.  Seldon  returned 
from  church ,  he  complained  of  indisposition.  A  physician  was 
called  ;  life  lingered  until  morning,  when  he  breathed  his  last 
eigh  upon  the  bosom  of  his  wife,  in  the  full  hope  of  a  glorious 
resurrection.  Henry  in  vain  strove  to  comfort  his  mother,  who, 
for  a  few  hours,  was  in  a  fearful  delirium.  So  sudden  had  been 
the  blow,  that  her  frame,  like  a  tree  twisted  by  the  tempest,  could 
only  recover  from  the  shock  by  the  slow  application  of  time. 
After  she  became  composed,  she  summoned  every  effort  of  her 
mind  and  body  for  her  son.  Alone,  they  pursued  the  course  they 
considered  the  most  prudent  for  their  scanty  means.  Henry 
applied  himself  closely  to  his  studies,  while  Mrs.  Seldon  attended 


THE     FORCE      OF      EDUCATION.  13 

to  her  domestic  concerns.  Henry  instructed  a  few  boys,  sons  ot 
their  particular  friends,  who  remembered  them  with  undiminished 
affection,  when  the  pastor  they  loved,  and  to  whose  voice  they  had 
listened  for  many  years,  was  silent  in  the  grave.  Years  rolled 
by,  and  Henry,  who  was  well  calculated  for  mercantile  business, 
left  home  for  the  purpose  of  obtaining  employment. 

Mrs.  Seldon  spent  the  day  in  deep  reflection,  and  many  were 
the  tears  which  fell  from  her  eyes  as  she  thought  of  a  separation. 
Fervent  were  her  supplications,  and  her  countenance  shone  with 
the  holy  emotions  of  her  soul.  The  tumult  in  her  bosom  had 
subsided,  and  she  felt  a  calmness  within,  such  as  the  Christian 
alone  knows,  and  affectionate  mothers  feel,  when  they  have  com- 
mitted the  children  of  their  love  into  the  arms  of  their  God.  She 
had  spread  her  table ;  warm  toast  and  coffee  stood  upon  the  hearth  ; 
and  she  sat  with  a  heart  subdued  by  divine  grace,  waiting  for  her 
son's  approach.  She  soon  heard  the  sound  of  his  welcome  step  ; 
the  door  opened,  and  Henry  entered,  his  eyes  sparkling  with 
animation,  and  his  face  radiant  with  manly  beauty. 

"  My  child,"  said  Mrs.  Seldon,  "  how  rejoiced  I  am  to  see  you ! 
Oh,  how  could  I  live  without  you  ?" 

As  she  spoke  the  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  upon  the  hand  of  her 
beloved  son,  who,  kissing  her  affectionately,  said — 

"  Dear  mother !  just  dry  your  tears,  and  pour  me  out  some  warm 
coffee,  for  T  am  both  cold  and  hungry." 

Mrs.  Seldon  drew  the  table  nearer  the  fire,  and,  seating  herself 
by  it,  inquired  how  he  had  succeeded.  Henry,  after  drinking  a 
cup  of  excellent  coffee,  said — 

"  Now,  my  dear  mother,  I  will  tell  you;  just  let  me,  however, 
finish  this  nice  piece  of  toast.  I  called  on  cousin  Mary  as  we 
proposed,  who  promised  to  remain  with  you  during  my  absence, 
should  I  conclude  to  leave  home.  T  then  proceeded  to  New-York  ; 
I  found  Mr.  Oswald  in  his  office,  who  received  me  both  politely 
and  affectionately.  He  invited  me  to  dine  with  him,  which  I  did." 

Henry's  face  crimsoned  as  he  spoke  ;  his  mother  saw  it,  but 
inquired  not  the  cause.  In  a  moment  he  proceeded. 

"  We  have  entered  into  an  engagement  which  is  satisfactory  to 
both.  I  am  to  be  there  on  the  tenth,  and  cousin  Mary  is  to  stay 
with  you." 

Mrs.  Seldon  thought  she  was  composed,  thought  her  will  was 
Bubdued,  and  no  more  conflicts  would  arise.  But  when  she  heard 


14  THE     FORCE     OF     EDUCATION. 

him  say  he  was  going — when,  on  looking  up,  she  encountered  the 
softened  brilliancy  of  his  expressive  eyes,  and  saw  his  look  of 
love  resting  upon  her,  she  sighed  deeply,  and  her  hand  trembled 
violently. 

Henry  had  finished ;  he  drew  the  table  back ;  he  saw  the 
struggle  in  her  bosom.  It  was  what  he  expected ;  as  he  took  her 
cold  hand  in  his,  while  she  endeavored  to  remove  her  handkerchief 
from  her  eyes,  her  feelings  overpowered  her,  and  she  wept  in  the 
fullness  of  her  soul.  Henry  sat  with  her  hand  clasped  in  his.  He 
spoke  not,  for  he  knew  the  conflict  would  soon  terminate,  and  his 
mother's  good  sense  prevail.  A  little  canary,  who  had  been 
their  sole  companion  for  many  years,  as  if  he  knew  their  feelings 
and  wished  to  alleviate  them,  trilled  his  sweetest  notes  in  long 
and  reiterated  strains. 

"Sweet  bird,"  said  Mrs.  Seldon,  looking  up,  "  did  you  say 
you  would  cheer  my  solitude  ?  I  will  indeed  listen  to  you,  for 
there  is  wisdom  in  your  voice,  and  I  will  be  composed." 

"Thank you,  my  kind  friend,"  said  Henry,  "  you  have  broken 
a  spell  that  was  fastening  too  deep  for  nature." 

The  word  of  God  closed  the  scenes  of  the  day,  and  both  mother 
and  son  slept  sweet  under  the  guardianship  of  the  angels. 

One  week  had  elapsed  since  Henry  Seldon  left  his  home,  when 
a  letter  was  handed  his  mother  by  the  post  boy.  She  broke  the 
seal  with  joyful  emotions,  and  pressed  the  well-known  characters 
to  her  bosom.  Mary  Greenly,  anxious  to  hear  from  her  cousin, 
begged  her  aunt  to  read  aloud,  which  she  did. 

"  MY  DEAR  MOTHER — In  compliance  with  your  request,  I  will 
now  give  you  a  description  of  the  family  with  whom  I  am  con- 
nected. Mr.  Oswald  is  a  man  of  wealth  and  influence,  possessed 
of  good  sense,  and  strictly  honest,  but  rather  inattentive  to  his 
business.  Ardently  attached  to  his  wife  and  daughters,  he  seldom 
denies  them  anything  they  wish.  Mrs.  Oswald  is  a  fine-looking 
woman,  fond  of  high  life,  and  quite  out  of  her  element  unless 
engaged  in  some  scene  of  dissipation.  Still  she  is  an  excellent 
woman,  and  kind  to  all  around  her.  Julie  and  Emilie,  her  two 
eldest  daughters,  are  handsome,  genteel  girls ;  but,  like  their  mo- 
ther ;  their  whole  heart  seems  absorbed  in  pleasure.  One  remains, 
my  dear  mother,  and  now,  as  you  ever  have  done,  you  shall  still 
know  every  avenue  to  my  heart.  Smile,  if  you  please,  and  say 


THE     FORCE     OF     EDUCATION.  15 

I  am  in  Jove ;  let  it  be  so.  I  will  endeavor  to  describe  Gertrude, 
the  youngest  daughter  of  Mr.  Oswald.  Do  you  recollect  hearing 
me  speak  of  a  young  lady  I  saw  on  a  sailing  excursion,  from  the 

seminary  of ?  Gertrude  Oswald  is  the  same.     She  is  just 

seventeen,  and  certainly  one  of  the  most  lovely  girls  I  ever  beheld. 
She  is  truly  beautiful ;  there  is  a  sedateness  in  her  manners  which 
renders  her  both  dignified  and  interesting.  Her  mind  is  highly 
cultivated,  and  throws  a  charm  around  her  whenever  she  speaks, 
that  is  irresistible.  I  would  hope  she  might  one  day  be  mine,  but 
I  am  poor,  and  although  I  confess  I  admire  her,  I  will  endeavor 
to  banish  the  idea  from  my  mind.  But  really,  my  dear  mother, 
she  is  just  the  very  being  that  you  would,  and  I  do  love.  My 
love  to  cousin  Mary.  I  fancy  I  see  you  seated  by  your  cheerful 
fire,  your  table  covered  with  periodicals  and  papers,  all  laid  aside 
to  read  my  letter.  Home,  with  its  endearments,  often  rushes  upon 
my  mind  ;  scenes  I  can  never  forget,  and  a  mother  I  can  never 
cease  to  love,  are  the  sweet  anodynes  which  at  night  lull  me  to 
repose.  You  will  say  T  am  getting  quite  sentimental ;  was  I  not 
always  so,  and  will  I  not  ever  be  ?  Your  affectionate  son, 

"  HENRY." 

All  was  confusion  in  Mr.  Oswald's  splendid  mansion.  Carriage 
after  carriage  rolled  to  and  fro  from  the  door,  and  the  drawing- 
rooms  were  crowded  with  beauty  and  fashion.  There  was  nothing 
wanting  to  make  the  scene  interesting,  for  nature  and  art  had 
united  their  efforts  to  render  it  enchanting.  Mrs.  Oswald  was 
delighted,  and  Julie  and  Emilie  were  in  raptures.  But  Gertrude, 
the  youngest  and  the  loveliest  of  the  bright  band,  looked  around 
upon  a  scene  which,  while  it  dazzled,  sickened  her.  The  conti- 
nued round  of  folly  and  dissipation  she  was  compelled  to  witness 
was  trying  to  her  nature,  and  she  trembled  at  the  vortex  she  saw 
the  whole  family  approaching.  The  saloon  was  elegantly  adorned ; 
refreshments  of  various  kinds  were  tastefully  arranged.  The 
fruit  looked  as  if  it  was  in  reality  growing  upon  the  stem,  so  beau- 
tiful were  the  miniature  trees  represented ;  and  the  grapes  hung 
luxuriant  upon  the  vines  which  curled  around  the  little  fairy 
arbors.  Wine  sparkled  in  the  goblets,  pyramids  glittered  beneath 
the  rays  of  the  hundred  lights,  while  music  echoed  in  thrilling 
sweetness  through  the  apartments.  Beauty  languished  on  elegant 
ottomans  and  reclined  on  gilded  sofas;  large  mirrors  were  empan. 


16  THE     FORCE     OF     EDUCATION. 

nelled  in  the  wall,  so  that  the  rooms,  as  the  giddy  throng  joined 
in  the  voluptuous  waltz,  had  the  appearance  of  magic.  It  was 
nearly  twelve,  when  Henry  Seldon  made  his  appearance.  He 
stood  for  some  time  absorbed  in  meditation  leaning  against  an  arch 
wreathed  with  artificial  flowers,  beautiful  as  if  bursting  from 
nature's  shrine.  Round  and  round  flew  the  excited  throng, 
and  many  were  the  bright  eyes  cast  upon  him,  for  there  was  not  a 
lady  present  but  would  have  been  proud  of  his  attention.  Sighing 
deeply,  he  looked  up  and  beheld  Gertrude  at  the  far  end  of  the 
room,  intently  viewing  a  verbena  he  purchased  a  lew  weeks  previ- 
ous for  his  mother,  and  had  given  to  her  to  nurse  until  he  should 
send  or  carry  it  home.  She  was  so  engrossed  in  her  own  reflec- 
tions as  not  to  heed  his  approach. 

"  Can  a  simple  flower,"  he  inquired,  "  engage  the  attention  of 
o»e  so  young  in  the  midst  of  so  much  mirth  and  pleasure  ?" 

Gertrude  raised  her  eyes  at  his  well-known  voice,  and  blushing 
deeply,  said — 

"  I  can  find  enjoyment  in  nothing  else ;  this  alone  seems  re- 
deemed from  the  blight  of  sin  and  folly,  and  I  love  it  for  its 
purity." 

Henry,  bending  over  her,  whispered  in  tones  which  thrilled 
through  every  winding  of  her  heart, 

"  One  other  lovely  creation  is  also  redeemed ;  will  you  allow  me 
a  few  moments'  conversation  ?" 

Gertrude  took  his  arm,  and  they  walked  about  to  escape 
interruption. 

Henry  Seldon  entered  the  family  of  Mr.  Oswald,  when  his 
whole  estate  seemed  suspended  upon  the  action  of  a  single  moment. 
He  found  his  accounts  in  a  disordered,  loose  state,  and  immedi- 
ately commenced  arranging  them.  Mr.  Oswald's  family  was  one 
of  the  most  wealthy  in  the  city.  His  wife  and  two  eldest  daugh- 
ters were  wholly  absorbed  in  the  fashion  and  extravagance  of  the 
day.  New  equipage,  furniture,  and  dress,  were  the  themes  of 
their  conversation.  Gertrude,  the  youngest,  had  lately  returned 
from  a  boarding-school  near  the  village  where  Henry  Seldon  and 
his  mother  resided.  She  had  been  absent  four  years,  and  boarded 
in  a  pious  family,  where  her  young  heart  became  imbued  with 
the  spirit  of  religion.  So  strongly  and  steadily  had  the  voice  of 
wisdom  sounded  in  her  ears,  and  so  beautifully  were  the  precepts 
of  the  Gospel  exemplified  in  the  family  of  Mr.  L.,  that  she  loved 


THE      FOBCE     OF     EDUCATION.  17 

the  very  earth  which  surrounded  his  habitation,  and  every  shrub, 
flower  and  tree,  were  dear  to  her.  It  was  during  an  excursion  on  a 
lake  near  the  dwelling  of  Mr.  L.  she  first  saw  Henry  Seldon,  though 
she  never  met  him  again  until  at  her  father's  table.  They  con- 
versed but  seldom ;  but  there  was  a  mingling  of  souls,  a  commu- 
nion of  hearts  which  expressed  itself  in  their  eyes,  and  unfolded 
the  secrets  of  their  love.  Mr.  Oswald,  having  the  fullest  confi- 
dence in  Henry,  intrusted  him  with  the  whole  care  of  his  business. 
Henry  saw  with  regret  Mr.  Oswald's  and  his  family's  thirst  for 
show  and  pleasure,  and  knew  by  the  bills  that  were  continually 
handed  in,  that  he  could  not  long  keep  up  such  an  appearance. 
Anxious  for  his  family,  he  consulted  his  excellent  mother  what 
course  to  pursue.  Great  responsibility  rested  upon  him.  Mr.  Os- 
wald felt  as  if  all  was  secure ;  knowing  the  fidelity  of  Henry, 
whose  control  over  the  clerks  was  absolute,  though  not  despotic. 
They  loved  him ;  and  a  look,  a  single  word,  was  sufficient,  and 
they  obeyed  him  as  if  by  magic.  Mrs.  Seldon  wrote  her  son  that 
it  was  her  opinion  he  had  better  speak  to  Mr.  Oswald,  and  plainly 
state  to  him  his  situation. 

For  weeks  there  was  a  continued  rush  of  parties,  etc.  One  day 
a  bill  of  five  thousand  dollars  was  handed  him,  and  he  could  not 
meet  the  demand.  Mr.  Oswald  came  into  the  counting-room  at 
the  same  moment,  when  Henry,  in  the  mildest  manner  possible, 
mentioned  his  fears  to  him.  Mr.  Oswald  started,  and  his  color 
went  and  came  with  every  impulse  of  his  feeling. 

"  Young  man,  I  certainly  know  my  own  business." 

"Dear  sir,"  said  Henry,  "let  me  be  candid  with  jou  ;  indeed, 
you  do  not.  I  do  not  mention  this  to  irritate  or  displease  you :  far 
from  it."  And  laying  his  hand  kindly  on  Mr.  Oswald's  arm, 
begged  him  to  pay  instant  attention  to  his  affairs,  as  he  felt  the 
responsibility  resting  upon  him  more  than  he  was  willing  to  bear. 
Mr.  Oswald  listened  for  a  moment  with  evident  emotion. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  Retrench,"  said  Henry ;  "  not  suddenly,  but  gradually." 

"  My  wife  and  daughters  will  spurn  the  idea." 

*'  Be  resolute,"  replied  Henry,  "  and  all  may  yet  go  well ;  a 
few  steps  further  and  you  are  lost." 

Mr.  Oswald  remained  silent  for  a  moment ;  his  face  was 
blanched,  and  his  bosom  heaved  with  an  inward  struggle. 

" I  have  given  my  consent  for  a  soiree  to  be  at  my  house  next 


18  THE     FORCE     OF     EDUCATION. 

week,  and  I  cannot  prevent  it,  for  the  invitations  are  given 
out." 

Henry  looked  distressed,  but  remained  silent.  Mr.  Oswald 
walked  the  room  much  agitated,  when  turning  suddenly  round, 
he  exclaimed,  "  Henry  Seldon,  can  I  bear  these  expenses  ?" 

Henry  spoke  not. 

Mr.  Oswald,  still  paler,  said,  "  Speak  quick,  and  save  me  from 
distraction,  and  my  wife  and  daughters  from  despair." 

"  Daughters !"  said  Henry ;  "  have  you  no  bright  spot,  no 
redeeming  virtue  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  Gertrude ;  and  if  I  mistake  not,  she  is  also  your 
guiding-star.  But  you  will  not  want  a  penniless  wife.  Oh, 
why  did  I  not  listen  to  you  before,  when  in  the  gentlest  terms 
you  have  hinted  to  me  we  were  living  too  fast !" 

Henry  felt  deeply  for  Mr.  Oswald,  and  taking  him  kindly  by 
his  arm,  closed  the  door,  and  led  him  to  the  desk. 

"  Here  are  all  your  bills ;  I  will  look  them  over,  and  if  this 
party  can  be  given,  and  you  can  be  saved,  I  will  inform  you ; 
but,  then,  you  must  remember  and  be  resolute." 

After  investigatiag  the  accounts,  it  was  concluded  to  give  the 
party,  and  then  acquaint  the  family ;  and  if  possible  go  on  with 
the  business.  Henry  and  Gertrude  conversed  freely  upon  their 
situation.  They  had  both  for  a  long  time  dreaded  the  result  of 
their  extravagance.  As  they  were  promenading  they  met  Mr. 
Oswald,  who,  looking  upon  them,  rejoiced  ;  there  were  those  who 
arose  above  the  fascinations  of  folly  and  fashion.  He  longed 
for  the  scene  to  end ;  it  pained  him  to  see  his  wife  and  daughters 
so  wholly  absorbed  in  pleasure,  and  he  trembled  for  the  morrow. 
He  looked  on  Henry  as  his  guardian  angel ;  and  on  Gertrude,  who 
had  so  often  been  ridiculed  by  her  sisters  for  her  Methodism,  as 
a  beautiful  flower  which  had  escaped  the  blight  of  the  destroyer. 

"  To  morrow,  Mr.  Oswald,"  said  Henry. 

"  To-morrow,  my  dear  father,"  said  Gertrude;  "be  resolute, 
and  all  will  be  well." 

"  Can  you  bear  the  storm  that  will  burst,  my  child  ?" 

"  Yes,"  replied  Gertrude  ;  "  and  long  to  hear  its  approaching 
murmur." 

"  Your  father  might  have  prevented  it,"  said  he ;  "  can  you 
forgive  him  ?" 

Gertrude  took  his  hand— she  loved  her  father  dearly — she  was 


THE      FOBCE      OF     EDUCATION.  19 

his  youngest,  and  his  darling  child— pressing  it  affectionately  to 
her  bosom,  she  said,  "  Dear  father,  you  have  never  offended  me ; 
you  need  nothing  but  resolution,  and  we  shall  again  be  happy." 

Mr.  Oswald  could  not  rest.  Such  were  his  emotions,  that  sleep 
departed  from  him. 

After  the  company  had  all  retired,  and  the  family,  as  he  sup- 
posed, asleep,  he  entered  the  deserted  rooms.  All  was  still  and 
cheerless.  Their  silence  spoke  volumes  to  his  soul.  He  looked 
around;  the  few  remaining  lights  burned  dimly.  Here  was  a 
glove  from  the  hand  of  beauty,  and  there  a  wilted  flower,  dropped 
amid  the  strife  of  folly  and  affectation.  Looking  upon  it,  he  ex- 
claimed, "  Such  will  be  the  remembrance  of  the  past,  and  the 
scene  for  which  I  last  night  expended  thousands,  live  no  longer  in 
remembrance  than  this  simple  flower,  which,  last  evening  for  an 
hour,  drew  around  it  the  gaze  of  the  multitude." 

He  walked  on  the  terrace,  for  his  brow  was  feverish,  and  his 
heart  beat  wildly.  The  scene  from  where  he  stood  was  delightful. 
The  night  was  still — the  moon  wending  her  way  through  fields  of 
light,  surrounded  by  innumerable  stars,  all  singing  in  sweetness 
and  harmony,  "The  hand  that  made  us  is  divine  ;"  while  man, 
God's  best  and  noblest  work,  lives  unmindful  of  his  high  destiny. 
The  East  River  lay  in  beautiful  relief  before  his  eyes ;  it  was  calm 
and  peaceful  as  the  sleep  of  inlancy ;  not  a  sound  was  heard  ; 
nature  was  hushed,  and  silence  spread  her  pall  over  the  universe. 
He  gazed  upon  the  scene  until  he  became  composed.  "  I  will," 
said  he,  "  listen  to  Henry  and  Gertrude.  I  will  be  resolute  !  I 
will  now  enter  my  office  and  see  the  worst  of  my  affairs.  Alone,  I 
can  venture  to  look  over  my  bills."  As  he  proceeded,  he  passed  hy 
Gertrude's  room,  from  whence  he  heard  a  murmuring  souni.  He 
listened.  It  was  his  daughter's  voice ;  it  was  his  own  Gertrude 
at  that  late  hour  praying  for  him.  He  heard  her  distinctly  say, 
"  Sustain  him,  oh,  my  God !  in  this  trying  scene,  and  give  him 
fortitude  to  perform  his  duty." 

Mr.  Oswald  wept ;  "  Fortitude  to  perform  my  duty !"  and 
clasping  his  hands,  he  hurried  to  his  office,  repeating,  "  fortitude 
to  perform  my  duty." 

On  opening  the  door,  he  was  startled  by  a  light  at  the  further 
end  of  the  room,  where,  sitting  by  a  table,  was  Henry  Seldon 
busily  engaged  in  looking  over  bills  and  papers  which  were 
strewed  around.  His  entrance  was  so  still,  he  was  unheard  by 


THE     FORCE     OF 


Henry,  who,  with  a  pen  in  one  hand,  was  resting  his  head  upon 
the  other.  On  seeing  Mr.  Oswald,  he  arose  precipitately  from  his 
seat,  and  approached  him. 

"  Excellent  young  man  !"  said  Mr.  Oswald,  extending  his  hand, 
"  and  have  you  devoted  your  hours  for  rest  to  me,  who  have 
been  so  ungrateful  and  unmindful  of  your  kindness  ?  What  do  I 
not  owe  you  ?" 

"  Mr.  Oswald,"  said  Henry,  knowing  the  probability  of  receiv- 
ing many  bills  to-morrow,  and  the  necessity  of  having  the  past 
accounts  accurate,  "  I  have  deferred  taking  my  rest  that  I  might 
aid  you." 

"  How  are  my  affairs  ?"  said  Mr.  Oswald  ;  "  let  me  know  the 
worst,  for  1  am  nerved  for  the  investigation — nerved  by  a  daugh- 
ter's prayers." 

Henry  cast  a  look  of  inquiry,  and  Mr.  Oswald  related  how  he 
had  passed  the  night. 

"  Gertrude  is  a  treasure,"  said  Henry,  "  an  exception  to  all  I 
ever  knew." 

"  And  she  shall  be  yours,  Henry  Seldon.  I  have  read  your 
note,  and  shall  with  pride  own  you  for  my  son.  You  have,  since 
you  have  been  here,  accumulated  a  handsome  property.  I  am 
happy  to  hear  from  you  that  your  mother  has  come  in  possession 
of  so  handsome  an  estate.  But  had  you  not  a  penny,  and  Gertrude 
a  million,  I  would  rather  have  her  your  wife,  than  any  other  man's 
living." 

Henry's  heart  was  full ;  he  had  loved  Gertrude  from  the  first 
moment  he  saw  her.  She  was  just  the  being  he  admired— just 
what  his  young  heart  panted  for.  They  had  plighted  their  vows, 
and  he  had  that  day  asked  her  of  her  father.  Gertrude  seldom 
went  with  her  sisters  and  mother ;  she  did  not  wish  to  go ;  and 
they,  conscious  of  her  superior  charms,  did  not  urge  her.  At 
home,  conversing  with  Henry,  and  reading  his  mother's  letters 
and  talking  of  her,  she  had  derived  more  enjoyment  than  in  all 
the  round  of  fashionable  life.  Mrs.  Oswald  had  always  been 
accustomed  to  parade  and  show,  and  knew  not  how  to  live  with- 
out it.  She  loved  her  husband  and  worshipped  her  children  ;  and 
thoughtlessly,  rather  than  wilfully,  pressed  her  wishes  upon  him. 
She,  with  all  the  family,  looked  upon  Henry  as  a  superior  being, 
and  shrank  from  his  penetrating  eye,  and  chilling  but  true  remarks. 
They  knew  he  loved  Gertrude,  and  was  willing  she  should  return 


THE     FORCE      OF     EDUCATION.  21 

his  affection.  Still,  in  the  moment  of  irritable  excitement,  she 
was  often  the  butt  of  their  unpleasant  feelings — she  and  her  Cal- 
vinistic  beau,  as  ihey  termed  him. 

The  next  morning  Gertrude  hastened  to  the  breakfast-room, 
where  she  waited  long  for  the  family.  At  length  Mrs.  Oswald 
entered.  "  My  dear  mother,"  said  Gertrude,  approaching  her, 
"  you  need  not  wait  for  my  father,  he  is  engaged,  and  cannot 
breakfast  with  you." 

"  Not  breakfast  with  us !  why,  this  is  quite  uncommon ;  where 
are  your  sisters  ?" 

"  Here,"  said  Gertrude,  as  they  entered. 

"  Well,  girls,  how  did  you  enjoy  yourselves  last  evening  ?" 
inquired  Mrs.  Oswald. 

"  Very  much  indeed,  ft  was  indeed  a  brilliant  affair  Did  you 
notice  how  astonished  the  Darlingtons  were  when  they  entered 
the  room  ?" 

"  Yes,:'  replied  the  mother;  "  and  many  others.  We  succeeded 
in  our  plan  to  admiration,  and  eclipsed  all  the  other  parties  that 
have  been  given  this  winter.  You  were  a  good  girl,  Gertrude,  for 
arranging  the  flowers  and  fruit  so  beautifully.  All,  even  Henry 
Ssldon,  admired  it ;  but  how  singularly  you  behaved !" 

"  I  know  it,"  said  Emilie ;  "  I  never  saw  you  so  provokingly 
Calvinistic  in  my  life." 

"  You  are  well  aware,  my  dear  sisters,"  replied  Gertrude,  "  I 
do  not  love  these  parties;  I  cannot  enjoy  them,  and  I  do  sincerely 
hope  our  father  will  never  give  his  consent  for  another." 

"  Mercy  !"  cried  Julie  ;  "  why,  you  are  growing  not  only  more 
puritanical,  but  a  real  pope ;  and  before  we  know  it,  we  shall 
have  an  inquisition  established." 

As  she  spoke,  Mr.  Oswald  and  Henry  entered.  Gertrude  turned 
deadly  pale. 

"  Why,  really,  Mr.  Oswald,"  said  his  wife,  "  what  in  the 
world  has  detained  you  ?  it  was  very  late  when  I  arose ;  we 
waited  some  time  for  the  girls,  and  now  it  is  nearly  twelve.  But 
here,"  ringing  the  bell,  "  you  shall  have  a  good  cup  of  coffee." 

"  No,  my  dear,"  replied  he,  in  a  softened  voice ;  "  I  do  not 
wish  any.  I  have  particular  business  to  attend  to." 

"  Well,  do  hurry,  papa,"  said  the  girls,  "  for  we  have  an 
engagement  at  two,  and  must  be  ready  at  the  time  appointed." 

"  Where  ?"  demanded  the  father. 


22  THE      FORCE     OF     EDUCATION. 

"  To  Harlem  ;  all  of  us.  It  is  Queen  Victoria's  birth  day,  and 
there  will  be  a  great  rush  to  the  celebration." 

"  I  cannot  go,"  said  Mr.  Oswald. 

"  Cannot  go  ?"  said  his  wife  and  daughters ;  "  but  we  are  abso- 
lutely engaged." 

Gertrude,  "  severe  in  her  youthful  beauty,"  reproved  her  sis- 
ters, and  urged  them  to  be  still. 

"  I  cannot,"  said  Mr.  Oswald  ;  and  approaching  his  wife,  he 
reached  her  his  hand. 

"  Mercy  !"  shrieked  Mrs.  Oswald,  "  what  ails  you  ?  How 
pale  you  look !  Oh,  reach  me  my  salts — I  shall  faint." 

Julie  and  Emilie  looked  wildly  at  their  father,  but  meeting  Mr. 
Seldon's  look  and  Gertrude's  pale  face,  they  remained  silent. 
Gertrude  handed  the  smelling-bottle  to  her  mother,  who  was  indeed 
faint,  took  her  hand,  and  affectionately  pressing  it  to  her  bosom, 
said,  "  My  dear  mother,  do  not  go  ;  do  not  urge  papa  ;  be  silent 
for  a  few  moments." 

In  a  few  words,  Mr.  Oswald  made  his  family  acquainted  with 
their  situation.  A  clap  of  thunder  from  a  clear  sky  could  not  be 
more  sudden.  The  girls  shrieked,  and  their  mother  fainted.  Mr. 
Oswald  looked  to  Henry,  who,  waving  his  hand,  said,  "  Be  still. 
The  storm  is  at  its  height,  and  will  soon  be  over." 

Mr.  Oswald  kissed  his  wife  and  folded  her  to  his  bosom.  Ger- 
trude and  Henry  soothed  the  sisters,  who  became  calm  by  listening 
to  their  melting  importunities.  "  How  the  Aldingtons  will  exult !" 
said  they ;  "  oh,  how  can  we  endure  their  scorn  !  how  they  will 
delight  to  see  our  pride  humbled  !" 

Mrs.  Oswald,  recovering,  said,  "  Why  was  this  delayed  ?  Why 
did  you  not  tell  us  before  ?" 

"  It  was  owing  to  my  neglect,"  said  Mr.  Oswald.  "  Can  you 
forgive  me  ?"  and  he  wept  freely. 

"  Oh,  my  husband  !"  said  Mrs.  Oswald.  "  Oh,  my  father,  my 
dear  father!"  said  the  girls, all  hanging  around  him  ;  "you  never 
did  wrong.  Oh,  look  up  and  smile,  and  we  shall  be  happy!" 

As  Henry  Selclon  gazed  upon  the  interesting  scene,  he  seemed 
like  the  fabled  Mentor,  when  he  saved  Ulysses  from  the  snare  of 
the  Syren.  "  Mrs.  Oswald,"  said  he,  approaching  her,  "  I'hope 
you  will  pardon  me  for  being  the  cause  of  this  sudden  sorrow  ? 
Mr.  Oswald  might  have  continued  for  some  time  in  the  course  you 
were  pursuing ;  but  the  bubble  would  eventually  have  burst,  and 


THE      FORCE     OF     EDUCATION.  23 

there  would  have  been  no  redemption.  Now,  my  dear  madam, 
by  retrenching  gradually,  and  by  proper  management,  you  can 
be  saved." 

"  We  owe  all  to  Mr.  Seldon,"  said  Mr.  Oswald.  "He  is  our 
preserver,  and  what  reward  can  we  make  him  ?  It  is  owing 
entirely  to  him  we  have  a  house  to  live  in — that  we  are  not  beg- 
gars in  the  street." 

Mrs.  Oswald  and  the  girls  crowded  round  him  and  wept  their 
thanks.  "  We  can  never  repay  him,"  said  Mrs.  Oswald,  "  and  I 
blush  to  look  up." 

Henry  gazed  around,  and  his  eyes  overflowed  with  the  pure 
emotions  of  his  soul.  "  May  I  claim  my  reward  ?"  said  he,  bow- 
ing to  Mrs.  Oswald ;  "  will  you  bestow  on  me  the  richest  gift 
heaven  can  bestow  ?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,  provided  it  is  in  my  power." 

"  Then,  give  me,"  said  he,  stepping  to  Gertrude,  and  leading 
her  forward,  "  give  me  your  child."  Gertrude,  trembling  with 
excess  of  feeling,  sank  upon  her  mother's  breast.  "  Will  you 
bestow  the  gift  ?"  he  tenderly  inquired. 

"  My  child,"  said  Mrs.  Oswald — "  my  sweet  Gertrude,  what 
Bhall  I  say  ?" 

"  Have  I  no  debt  to  pay  my  mother  ?"  she  said,  and  bursting 
into  tears,  she  hid  her  blushing  face  in  her  bosom. 

******* 

It  was  on  one  of  those  beautiful  mornings  in  June,  when  every- 
thing in  nature  has  a  softening  influence  upon  the  mind,  and 
comes  home  to  the  soul  in  a  mysterious,  yet  delightful  manner, 

when  a  carriage  stopped  at  the  parsonage  of  C ,  and  Henry 

Seldon  led  his  young  and  lovely  bride  to  his  fund  and  doting  mother. 
Mrs.  Seldon  wept  tears  of  joy  as  she  folded  Gertrude  to  her  bosom. 
She  had  been  acquainted  with  all  the  circumstances  relative  to  her 
father's  family,  having  heard  from  her  son  all  that  had  transpired. 

"  We  have  just  stopped  to  look  at  you,  my  dear  mother,"  said 
Henry  ;  "  we  are  on  a  short  tour;  when  that  is  accomplished,  we 
will  return  and  spend  the  remainder  of  our  days  together." 

Gertrude  gazed  around  in  an  ecstacy  of  delight.  Rural  simpli- 
city reigned  in  every  direction.  Nothing  could  have  been  more 
gratifying,  more  as  she  wished.  It  was  a  true  picture  of  what,  in 
her  imagination,  she  had  long  sighed  for.  The  place  had  under- 
gone a  thorough  repair.  A  beautiful  lawn  surrounded  the  dwell- 


24  THE      FORCE      OF     EDUCATION. 

ing,  embowered  with  trees  of  various  descriptions,  among  which 
were  elms  of  half  a  century,  under  whose  branches  Henry  had 
wiled  away  the  happy  hours  of  childhood.  The  shrubs  and 
curling  vines  ran  luxuriantly  over  the  portico,  the  seats  of  which 
were  filled  with  flowers  of  the  choicest  kind.  Henry  led  her  to 
one,  which  was  placed  upon  his  mother's  work-table.  It  was  the 
verbena  she  nursed.  Gertrude's  heart  was  full,  as  Henry  asked 
her,  "  if  there  it  was  the  only  redeeming  virtue  ?"  "  No !  oh,  no !" 
she  replied  ;  "  all  is  redeeming  here.  This  is  the  earthly  paradise 
my  soul  has  panted  for."  At  that  moment  the  canary  trilled  his 
sweetest  notes,  and  associations,  strong  and  irresistible,  came  over 
them.  Cousin  Mary  appeared  with  strawberries  and  cream.  After 
partaking  of  them,  and  enjoying  a  walk  in  the  garden,  they  bade 
Mrs.  Seldon  adieu,  and  started  for  Saratoga. 

Reader,  would  you  behold  a  scene  of  as  perfect  happiness  as 

this  changing  world  can  afford,  go  to  the  parsonage  of  C ,  and 

in  a  room  neatly  furnished,  you  will  find  seated  on  a  sofa,  two 
females,  their  feet  resting  on  an  ottoman,  on  which  sits  Henry 
Seldon,  with  a  hand  of  each  clasped  in  his.  They  are  his  wife 
and  mother.  The  breath  of  love  lingers  upon  their  lips,  as  the 
dew  of  the  morning  on  the  young  rose  leaves.  The  law  of  kind- 
ness is  in  their  hearts,  and  their  dwelling  is  the  abode  of  happiness 
and  peace.  Such  is  the  force  of  education,  such  the  effect  of 
rightly  training  the  mind,  such  the  ways  of  virtue  that  there  is 
more  real  pleasure  to  be  derived  from  the  consciousness  of  doing 
good,  than  from  any  other  source.  Here  in  this  picture  is  plainly 
portrayed  from  whence  all  true  enjoyment  springs.  Religion  and 
virtue  wreath  the  altar  of  domestic  love,  and  happiness  flows 
spontaneously  from  a  fount  so  pure  and  lovely. 


FILIAL    PIETY    REWARDED. 


MRS.  STANHOPE  was  the  widow  of  an  American  officer,  who  was 
killed  in  the  battle  of  Princeton,  and  who  fell  by  the  side  of  the 
brave  Col.  Mercer.  Mr.  Stanhope's  grandfather,  Robert  Stanhope, 
crossed  from  Europe  to  America  in  the  Mayflower,  and  was  one 
of  that  bright  constellation,  who  sang  the  song  of  praise  on  Ply- 
mouth's ice-clad  rock.  His  son,  Samuel  Stanhope,  penetrated  the 
wilds  of  Virginia,  cleared  for  himself  a  farm,  on  which  he  hved 
many  years,  and  which,  at  his  death,  he  bequeathed  to  his  son, 
Robert  Stanhope,  the  officer  above  mentioned. 

He  had  become  in  early  life  attached  to  Adelaide  Mowbray, 
whom  he  married  with  every  prospect  of  earthly  enjoyment. 
Never  were  hearts  more  truly  devoted.  They  lived  in  each  other's 
smiles  in  calm  retirement,  and  cultivated  their  farm  with  comfort 
and  pleasure.  The  risinz  sun  brightened,  as  he  cast  his  radiance 
upon  their  dwelling;  and  the  soft  rays  of  their  beaming  counte- 
nances, as  they  knelt  at  their  devotions,  mingled  with  the  pure 
glow  of  the  morning.  Labor  to  them  was  sweet,  for  it  was  love 
which  prompted  them  to  action ;  love  cleared  the  land ;  love 
spread  the  table ;  love  enlightened  the  winter's  eve,  and  shed  its 
benign  influence  on  all  around.  The  labors  of  the  day  ended  with 
a  smile  ;  their  slumbers  were  sweet  and  tranquil ;  their  own  soft 
breathings  lulled  them  to  repose,  and  with  the  lark  their  songs  of 
praise  arose  on  the  morning  breeze.  One  lovely  child  was  the 
pledge  which  sealed  their  vows,  and  made  their  union  still  more 
sweet.  For  her  they  labored,  and  each  shared  in  her  soft  caresses. 
Her  infant  glee,  her  merry  laugh,  her  tottering  steps,  her  every 
action,  served  but  to  rivet  the  chains  which  bound  them  closer 
together. 

The  little  Emily  operated  like  a  charm  upon  their  senses,  and 
her  presence  threw  around  them  a  halo  of  increasing  brightness. 
Religion,  innocence,  peace,  and  contentment  were  the  inmates  of 
their  abode.  When  the  difficulties  first  commenced  between  Great 


26  FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED. 

Britain  and  America,  a  day  was  set  apart,  as  one  of  fasting  and 
prayer  in  their  own  State,  which  was  observed  by  them  with  holy 
devotion.  Mr.  S.  was  a  true  patriot ;  his  country  was  as  dear  to 
him  as  life,  and  he  was  among  the  first  who  stepped  forward  in 
the  defence  of  his  nation's  rights  and  privileges.  It  was  an  hour 
of  bitterness  when  he  told  his  young  and  lovely  wife  he  must 
leave  her.  Well  as  she  loved  her  husband,  agonizing  as  was  the 
idea  of  parting,  she  did  not  yield  to  despair.  He  saw  the  color 
forsake  her  cheek  as  he  spoke  of  his  departure ;  saw  the  tears, 
like  rain  drops,  fall  from  her  beautiful  eyes,  but  heard  no  loud 
exclamation  from  her  lips.  She  was  a  woman  of  noble  mind  ; 
she  understood  the  situation  of  her  country,  and  panted  for  its 
deliverance.  But  could  she  yield  up  her  husband,  dear  as  her 
own  life,  the  father  of  her  Emily,  the  sharer  of  every  joy  and 
sorrow  ?  Could  she  be  left  without  him  ?  It  was  indeed  a  strug- 
gle ;  but  he  must  go. 

Never  did  a  more  fervent  desire  ascend  before  the  throne  of 
infinite  purity,  than  arose  from  this  fond  pair  on  the  night  previ- 
ous to  the  departure  of  Mr.  S.  As  their  petitions  ended,  they 
embraced  each  other  in  silence  for  some  moments;  while  on  their 
knees  they  took  little  Emily  between  them,  and  solemnly  dedi- 
cated her  to  God,  and  gave  themselves  renewedly  to  his  care. 
Overcome  by  contending  emotions,  they  sank  to  repose.  The 
morning  broke  upon  them,  and  the  bright  rays,  which  peeped 
through  the  casements  of  their  window  from  the  rising  sun,  were 
the  last  beams  which  ever  met  their  views  together  while  in  this 
vale  of  tears.  Mr.  Stanhope  took  his  beloved  Adelaide  in  his 
arms,  and  held  her  for  many  moments  in  speechless  agony :  as  he 
brushed  back  the  raven  curls  from  her  beautiful  brow,  he  im- 
printed upon  her  lips  his  farewell  kiss.  With  frantic  agony  she 
hung  upon  his  neck,  and  clasped  him  to  her  bosom — bathed  his 
face,  his  hands,  with  her  tears,  and  stood  the  silent  picture  of  wo. 
Stepping  to  the  bed,  he  kissed  and  blessed  his  sleeping  babe — cast 
one  more  glance  upon  his  beloved  wife,  and  hurried  away  from 
the  spot  dearest  to  him  on  earth,  to  return  no  more. 

After  the  agony  of  parting  was  over,  Mrs.  Stanhope  turned  her 
attention  to  the  cultivation  of  her  farm,  to  her  household,  and  her 
child.  She  was  a  woman  of  high-souled  courage,  although  pos- 
sessed of  the  finest  sensibilities  of  her  sex.  Well  as  she  loved  her 
husband,  she  gloried  in  his  patriotism  and  his  honor.  Many  were 


FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED.  27 

the  prayers,  which  arose  from  pious  mothers  and  wives  during 
that  momentous  struggle  for  liberty  and  independence,  but  none 
more  fervently  than  those  of  Adelaide  Stanhope,  while  her  husband 
was  following  his  brave  commander,  the  immortal  Washington, 
from  place  to  place,  amid  discouragements,  hardships,  cold,  wea- 
riness and  hunger,  even  with  naked,  bleeding  feet,  over  our  newly 
fertilized  land,  in  the  pursuit  of  those  blessings  we  so  richly  enjoy. 
For  hours  would  she  plead  for  them  and  for  her  beloved  country; 
and  often  would  her  little  Emily,  while  kneeling  by  her  mother's 
side,  wipe  the  tears  from  her  eyes,  and  twine  her  little  arms 
around  her  neck.  So  fervent,  so  pure,  so  rapt,  were  the  devotions 
of  this  sainted  woman,  that  the  sacredness  of  the  scene  was  such 
as  to  inspire  her  child,  young  as  she  was,  with  feelings  that  her 
mother's  communion  was  holy  and  sublime ;  and  thus  her  youthful 
mind  became  imbued  wilh  the  pure  precepts  that  were  continually 
instilled  into  her  expanding  intellect. 

Anxiously  did  Mrs.  Stanhope  watch  for  any  intelligence  con- 
cerning the  army ;  sometimes  encouraged,  sometimes  almost  ready 
to  despair  of  ever  seeing  him  she  loved,  or  of  hearing  the  silver 
clarion  of  peace  echoing  throughout  our  then  bloodstained  land. 

It  was  in  November,  just  at  evening's  soft  and  tranquil  hour, 
as  Mrs.  S.  was  sitting  with  her  little  Emily,  chanting  her  vesper 
hymn,  that  a  rap  was  heard,  and  a  stranger  entered.  Mrs.  S.  read 
the  fatal  news  in  his  eye,  and  it  was  soon  confirmed.  Her  be- 
loved husband  was  no  more  !  He  had  fallen  on  the  battle-field, 
crowned  wilh  the  laurels  of  his  country ! 

Like  the  lily  which  bows  its  gentle  head  to  the  winds  of  heaven, 
Mrs.  Stanhope  yielded  to  the  blow  with  the  meekness  of  a  Chris- 
tain.  Closer  than  ever  did  she  cling  to  the  throne  of  grace,  and 
nearer  and  more  holy  was  her  communion  with  her  God.  The 
salvation  of  her  child  was  now  her  chief  desire,  and  she  looked 
forward  with  a  sacred  joy  to  their  re-union  in  heaven. 

After  the  storm  of  war  was  hushed  through  our  land,  and  Peace 
sat  triumphantly  upon  her  throne,  crowned  with  a  chaplet  of 
unfading  laurels ;  when  Liberty,  waving  her  star-spangled  banner, 
declared  our  country  free,  Mrs.  Stanhope  disposed  of  her  farm, 
bade  adieu  to  the  place  with  which  the  image  of  her  beloved  hus- 
band was  strongly  associated,  and  settled  upon  the  banks  of 
the  beautiful  Potomac. 

Her  health  received  a  shock  at  her  husband's  death,  from  which 


28  FILIAL     PIETY     EEWAKDED. 

ehe  never  recovered.  She  was  a  stranger  in  R. ;  lived  secluded,  and 
was  seldom  seen,  save  in  the  sanctuary  of  God.  Possessed  of  a 
well-cultivated  mind,  she  attended  to  the  education  of  her  daugh- 
ter, whose  intellectual  powers  were  not  inferior  to  her  own; 
and  under  her  fostering  hand  she  bloomed,  like  the  young  flowers 
of  summer;  nor  were  they  more  beautiful  or  more  pure  than 
Emily  Stanhope. 

One  Sabbath  afternoon,  while  they  were  at  church,  a  shower 
suddenly  arose,  accompanied  by  heavy  thunder  and  vivid  light- 
ning. Mr.  James,  the  clergyman,  awed  by  the  sublimity  of  the 
scene,  spoke  eloquently  of  the  coming  judgment.  The  earth  had 
become  drenched  with  rain :  Mrs.  Stanhope's  health  being  ex- 
tremely delicate,  she  hesitated  on  going  immediately  out.  As  she 
and  her  daughter  were  standing  near  the  door,  viewing  the  scenery 
around,  the  trees  and  bushes,  dripping  with  the  rain  drops,  now 
glittering  like  emerald  blossoms,  Emily  directed  her  mother's  eye 
to  a  beautiful  rainbow  which  arched  the  heavens.  The  sun  at  the 
same  moment,  bursting  from  behind  a  cloud,  added  brilliancy  to 
the  scene.  Laying  her  hand  gently  upon  her  mother's  arm,  she 
exclaimed,  in  a  sweet,  soft  voice, 

"  Is  not  this  delightful  ?" 

Her  mother,  glancing  her  eye  upward,  said,  "  It  is  the  bow  of 
promise,  my  child ;  it  tells  me  we  shall  meet  in  yonder  heaven." 

There  was  a  sacredness,  a  solemnity,  in  the  words  of  Mrs.  S. 
which  touched  Emily's  heart,  while  an  unaccountable  sensation 
pervaded  her  soul. 

At  that  moment  a  carriage  drove  up  to  the  door,  and  a  young 
gentleman,  who  had  been  a  silent  spectator  of  the  scene,  had 
heard  the  conversation  between  the  mother  and  daughter,  and 
had  more  than  once  seen  Emily  Stanhope,  stepped  forward,  and 
asked  them  to  take  seats  in  his  carriage.  As  he  was  a  stranger, 
Mrs.  Stanhope  declined  his  proposal ;  when  Mr.  James  came  for- 
ward, and,  introducing  him  as  Mr.  Charles  Hammond,  said, 

"  I  am  to  go  in  this  carriage,  and  beg  that  you  and  your  daughter 
will  permit  us  to  see  you  safe  home." 

Mrs.  Stanhope  trembled  violently ;  her  countenance  was  pale 
with  excitement;  the  discourse  to  which  she  had  been  atten- 
tively listening  had  affected  her  spirits.  Bowing  to  the  young  man, 
she  ascended  the  steps,  followed  by  her  daughter.  When  seated, 
Mr.  James,  being  animated  with  the  beautiful  appearance  of  na- 


FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED.  29 

ttire  after  the  shower,  spoke  in  raptures.  But  his  observations 
were  unheeded  by  Emily,  who  saw  her  beloved  mother  unusually 
agitated  ;  and  knowing  how  frail  she  was,  she  trembled  with  fear 
lest  some  rude  blast  might  sweep  her  away  forever.  As  she  sat 
silently  gazing  upon  her  wan  countenance,  she  sighed  involunta- 
rily, and  a  silent  tear  fell  heavily  upon  her  hand.  She  raised  her 
eyes,  and  met  the  ardent,  the  fixed  gaze  of  the  stranger  riveted 
upon  her,  as  if  to  read  her  very  soul. 

When  they  reached  their  dwelling,  the  gentlemen  assisted  Mrs. 
Stanhope  from  the  carriage,  who,  leaning  on  the  arm  of  the  cler- 
gyman, walked  toward  the  door,  while  the  stranger  aided  Emily. 
On  opening  the  gate,  she  raised  her  eyes  to  thank  him  for  his  po- 
liteness ;  but  she  was  confused,  and  without  saying  one  word, 
entered  the  yard. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  said  Mr.  Hammond ;  "  I  hope  neither  your- 
self nor  your  mother  will  receive  injury  from  the  storm." 

She  turned,  and  met  a  smile  so  sweet,  fhat  her  young  heart 
drank  in  its  exuberance,  while  a  sun-lit  glow  came  over  her  al- 
most new  existence. 

Hastening  to  her 'mother,  she  prevailed  upon  her  to  lie  down 
for  a  short  time  and  rest.  She  then  entered  her  chamber,  where 
alone  she  poured  out  her  soul  to  her  heavenly  Father  for  submis- 
sion to  his  will ;  for  she  saw  evidently  she  must  soon  be  left  an 
orphan.  She  arose  calm  and  serene ;  on  entering  the  parlor,  she 
found  her  mother  seated  on  the  sofa. 

"  Come  here,  my  Emily,"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope,  when  taking  her 
daughter's  hand.  "  I  see  you  are  agitated  about  me,  and  beg  you 
will  be  composed.  You  have  ever  heard  from  me,  my  child,  how 
fleeting  and  vain  are  all  terrestrial  things.  I  have  ever  endeavored 
to  lead  your  mind  above,  to  prepare  you  for  the  scenes  of  life  ;  and 
feel  confident  that  He,  who  clothes  the  lilies  of  the  field,  will  take 
care  of  you.  I  may  live  long,  but  feel  a  presentiment  that  I  shall 
not.  The  discourse  this  afternoon  has  opened  a  future  state  so 
clearly  and  powerfully  to  my  mind,  and  the  glories  of  the  upper 
world  have  beamed  so  sweetly  upon  me,  I  feel  almost  anxious  to 
become  one  of  the  happy  number  who,  through  much  tribulation, 
have  washed  their  robes  white  in  the  blood  of  the  Lamb." 

"  Oh  !  my  dear  mother — my  dear  mother,"  said  the  weeping 
Emily,  "  what  can  I  do  in  this  bleak  world  without  you  ?  Oh  that 
I  might  die  too !" 


30  FILIAL     PIETY     BEWARDED. 

"  Say  not  so,  my  child,"  replied  Mrs.  S. ;  "  be  willing  to  remain 
here,  and  accomplish  your  Father's  will.  Endeavor  to  fill  with 
fidelity  every  station  in  which  you  may  be  placed,  looking  by 
faith  to  One  who  will  never  leave  or  forsake  you.  You  have 
long  been  devoted  to  me,  and  your  filial  piety  and  affectionate  love 
will  never  pass  unrewarded.  Look,  my  Emily,  to  yonder  setting 
sun,  and  as  he  quickly  sinks  behind  the  mountain,  sing  me  my 
favorite  hymn." 

With  a  faint  voice,  and  a  countenance  lit  up  with  holy  fervor, 
the  sweet  girl  obeyed  her  mother's  commands.  Her  soul  caught 
the  inspiration  of  the  hour,  and  her  voice,  clear  and  melodious, 
rose  and  swelled  on  the  gentle  breeze,  then  died  away  in  heavenly 
strains,  as  she  sang  the  following  hymn — 

AN    EVENING    THOUGHT. 

AH  !  what  is  our  life  but  a  dream, 

A  shadow  which  fleeth  away, 
A  light  which  is  cast  on  the  stream, 

By  moon-beams  that  fitfully  play  ; 

A  flash  of  delight,  which  at  best 

Is  false  as  'tis  fleeting  and  vain, 
Which  retires  like  the  sun  in  the  west ; 

When  he  dips  his  bright  disk  in  the  main ; 

An  arrow  which  flies  through  the  air, 

And  is  borne  in  its  speed  from  our  sight ; 

A  vision  as  transient  as  fair, 

And  brief  as  a  dream  of  the  night ; 

A  dew-drop  which  sparkles  at  mom, 
And  glows  in  the  sun's  golden  rays : 

Its  brilliance. the  flow'rets  adorn, 
Then  dies  and  expires  in  his  blaze. 

Then  why,  oh  my  soul !  dost  thou  sigh 

To  drink  in  its  cup  of  delight, 
When  earth's  brightest  glories  all  die, 

All  vanish  and  fade  on  our  sight ! 

Its  cup  of  enchantment  is  broke, 
Its  loveliest  vision  has  fled ; 


FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED.  31 

'Tis  crushed,  'tis  eclipsed  by  a  stroke, 
'Tis  withered,  'tis  blighted  and  dead. 

Away  through  yon  regions  of  peace, 

Where  pleasures  unceasingly  roll, 
I  would  fly  to  behold  that  lov'd  face, 

Whose  beauties  enrapture  the  soul. 

Where  tempest  and  clouds  never  come, 

Where  all  is  immortal  and  fair, 
I  would  rest  in  my  heaven,  my  home, 

And  revel  in  blessedness  there. 

On  the  ensuing  day,  Mr.  James  called :  his  conversation  and 
his  prayers  were  soothing  to  the  souls  of  both,  and  his  visit 
more  esteemed,  more  gratifying,  than  the  choicest  treasures  of  the 
East.  He  informed  them  that  the  young  gentleman  to  whom  they 
were  introduced  was  the  only  son  of  a  respectable  merchant,  who 
had  lately  fixed  himself  in  the  place.  He  left  them  with  the 
promise  of  calling  soon. 

Mrs.  Stanhope's  circumstances  were  humble.  Emily  had  the 
sole  care  of  her  mother,  who  was  so  unwell  as  to  be  confined  to 
her  room.  She  did  not  let  her  know  how  many  difficulties  she  had 
to  encounter,  but  carefully  concealed  them  from  her.  She  was 
her  nurse  by  day  and  by  night,  and  watched  with  intense  anxiety 
her  very  breath. 

One  day,  as  she  was  crossing  the  street  to  obtain  from  a  store 
opposite  some  necessaries,  being  in  haste,  the  wind  took  her  bon- 
net, which  was  untied,  and  carried  it  a  short  distance  from  her. 
Throwing  back  her  hair,  which  hung  in  wild  confusion  around 
her  beautiful  neck  and  finely-turned  shoulders,  she  saw  a  gentle- 
man bringing  her  bonnet.  It  was  Charles  Hammond, 

Whose  memory,  like  a  brilliant  star, 

Around  her  pathway  shone  ; 
Whose  twinkling  beauty  from  afar, 

Oft  cheered  her  when  alone. 

She  received  it  from  him  blushingly,  and  thanked  him.     He  in- 
quired after  her  mother's  health,  and  passed  on. 

Mrs.  Stanhope  continued  more  unwell ;  a  physician  was  applied 
to.  She  was  subject  to  faintness,  wkich  so  much  alarmed  Emily, 


FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED. 


that  she  was  entirely  overpowered.  She  had  become  nervous 
through  continued  walchings.  It  was  after  one  of  these  affections, 
that  Mrs.  S.  opened  her  eyes,  and  beheld  her  beloved  child  gazing 
upon  her  with  all  the  tenderness  of  her  young  heart. 

"  I  am  better,  my  love,  I  am  better,"  she  exclaimed,  "  and  shall 
live  a  little  longer,  I  hope,  for  your  sake." 

"  Oh !  my  mother,"  said  Emily,  "  I  was  fearful  the  long  agony 
of  your  life  was  over;"  and,  stooping  down,  her  warm  tears 
mingled  with  her  kisses. 

Long  and  still  was  the  silence  which  ensued,  broken  only  by 
an  hysterical  sob  from  the  lovely  being,  who,  while  bending  over 
her  mother's  almost  inanimate  body,  saw  nothing  before  her  but 
one  wild  solitary  waste. 

Just  then  the  physician  entered,  who  was  about  forty  years  of 
age,  kind  and  attentive,  constituting  a  friend  and  physician  both. 
He  entered  their  abode  as  a  stranger,  but  he  felt,  after  a  few  visits, 
like  a  fiiend  and  a  father.  He  admired  Mrs.  Stanhope  for  her 
meekness,  her  piety,  her  sweetness  of  manners ;  and  he  looked 
upon  Emily  as  one  of  the  most  perfect  of  huma>i  beings.  He  had 
witnessed  her  unwearied  care,  her  entire  devotedness ;  saw  how 
her  whole  soul  was  identified  with  her  mother's  life :  and  his 
heart  bled  within  him,  when  he  beheld  how  fast  the  messenger, 
death,  was  approaching  to  sever  this  young  and  tender  blossom 
from  its  parent  stem,  and  at  a  time  when  she  most  needed  her 
counsel  and  her  love.  He  became  acquainted  with  their  circum- 
stances, and  had  consulted  with  Mr.  James,  who  was  his  friend, 
what  course  to  pursue  in  regard  to  Emily  after  her  mother's  de- 
cease. Mr.  James  was  anxious  she  should  live  with  him,  as  he 
had  no  child  ;  and  it  was  concluded  upon. 

On  entering  the  room  one  day,  he  found  Emily  sitting  by  the 
bed  side  of  her  mother,  and  reading  aloud  in  the  sacred  book. 
Upon  Mrs.  Stanhope's  wan  countenance  a  glow  of  unearthly 
brightness  lingered  ;  for,  as  she  listened  to  the  soft  voice  of  her 
child,  she  seemed  to  catch  a  glimpse  of  a  better  world. 

"  Oh  !"  said  she,  "  doctor,  could  I  but  see  my  Emily  pleasantly 
situated,  I  should  have  no  further  wish.  I  could  depart,"  raising 
her  emaciated  hands,  "  yes,  this  moment." 

"  Say  not  so,  dearest  madam,"  said  the  doctor ;  "  perhaps  your 
wish  may  yet  be  granted."  As  he  spoke,  he  handed  Emily  a  note. 
She  opened  it — a  deep  blush  overspread  her  face. 


FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED.  33 

The  doctor  said  he  would  retire  for  a  few  moments,  and  cajl 
again,  casting  an  arch  look  at  Emily;  "for  I  wait  your  commands." 

After  he  was  gone,  Emily  read  the  note  to  her  mother.  Tt  waa 
from  Charles  Hammond,  stating  an  avowal  of  his  love,  and  re- 
questing permission  to  visit  her.  Mrs.  Stanhope  fixed  her  eyes 
upon  her  child.  She  had,  from  the  day  they  met  in  the  church, 
felt  confident  an  attachment  had  sprung  up  in  her  heart,  although 
she  never  mentioned  it ;  for  Charles  Hammond  was  a  youth  of 
uncommon  beauty  and  suavity  of  manners.  She  remembered  her 
young  dream  of  love,  a  bright  vision  which  had  followed  her 
through  life,  and  never  slumbered ;  and  she  read  in  her  daughter's 
face,  which  was  the  index  of  her  heart,  that  all  was  not  quiet 
there. 

"  Shall  we  admit  his  visits,  my  dear  ?"  said  Mrs.  Stanhope, 
"  for  I  see  the  doctor  is  coming,  and  he  will  require  an  answer." 

"  Dear  mother,"  said  the  blushing  girl,  "  what  shall  I  do  ?" 

"  Just  as  you  please,  my  love." 

As  she  spoke,  the  doctor  entered.  He  seated  himself  by  Mrs. 
S.,  while  Emily  retired.  Alone,  in  her  chamber,  she  knelt  and 
prayed  for  divine  direction.  That  she  loved  was  true — sincerely, 
devotedly,  from  the  first  hour  they  met.  She  arose  from  her  rest- 
ing-place, calm,  determined,  and  happy.  Having  answered  the 
note,  she  handed  it  to  the  doctor,  who"  immediately  withdrew ; 
then  leaning  her  head  on  her  mother's  pillow,  she  burst  into  tears. 
Mrs.  Stanhope,  parting  the  raven  r±air  which  shaded  her  beauti- 
ful face,  kissed  her ;  Ihen,  laying  her  trembling  hand  upon  her 
daughter's,  she  closed  her  eyes  in  silent  prayer. 

The  next  day  brought  Charles  Hammond  to  the  habitation  of 
one  he  had  adored  from  the  first  moment  he  saw  her.  Emily  re- 
ceived him  with  modest  dignity,  and  unaffectedly  listened  to  an 
avowal  of  his  ardent  affections. 

"  I  had  seen  you  often,"  said  he,  "  before  you  knew  it ;  have 
often  watched  you  and  your  mother  as  you  walked  in  the  garden, 
and  wished  for  an  introduction,  a  desire  that  was  granted  me  in 
the  church.  I  am  anxious  you  should  receive  assistance  ;  your 
mother's  health  and  your  own  require  it.  Will  you  permit  me  to 
see  her  ?" 

Emily  led  the  way  into  her  mother's  room.  Mrs.  Stanhope 
received  him  with  ease  and  a  degree  of  cheerfulness.  She  listened 
to  his  requests,  and  peimitted  him  to  supply  her  with  a  nurse. 


34  FILIAL     PIETY     BEWARDED. 

From  this  time  Mrs.  Stanhope  gradually  declined.  A  smile  of 
content  rested  upon  her  once  beautiful  features.  She  saw  her  be- 
loved Emily  surrounded  with  friends,  with  the  pleasing  prospect 
of  being  united  to  one  truly  deserving  of  her. 

One  day,  as  Emily  and  Mr.  Hammond  were  sitting  by  her  mo- 
ther, each  had  tenderly  taken  her  hand.  She  was  gazing  intently 
upon  them.  Emily  was  pale  with  excitement,  and  her  eyes  red 
with  weeping ;  for  she  loved  her  mother  as  her  own  life,  and  she 
wept  as  she  saw  her  sinking  to  the  grave.  Mrs.  S.,  sensible  of 
her  feelings,  spoke  of  the  happiness  which  awaited  her  in  a  better 
land,  and  of  the  re-union  which  would  take  place  when  liberated 
from  her  prison  of  clay.  Seeing  a  change  in  her  appearance,  they 
arose.  At  that  moment  the  doctor  and  Mr.  James  entered.  They 
assisted  Mrs.  S.,  who  had  fainted.  Emily  bent  in  anguish  over 
her  beloved  parent,  who,  looking  up,  motioned  for  Mr.  Hammond ; 
then  taking  a  hand  of  either,  she  joined  them  together,  saying, 

"  Love  and  cherish  one  another,  and  meet  me  in " 

Heaven,  she  would  have  said,  but  again  fainted.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments she  revived,  when,  looking  upon  Mr.  James,  she  feebly 
articulated — "  Pray." 

All  knelt  but  Emily :  she  hung  in  agony  over  her  dying  mo- 
ther, kissed  her  cold  marble  brow,  laid  her  hand  softly  on  her's, 
bent  low  to  catch  her  last  breath.  Her  respirations  grew  fainter 
and  fainter ;  and  as  Mr.  James  poured  forth  his  soul  to  God,  Mrs. 
Stanhope's  pure  spirit  fled,  and  Emily  fell  senseless  into  the  arms 
of  her  friends 

As  the  timid  flower  rears  its  beauteous  head  beneath  the  genial 
rays  of  a  summer's  sun  after  a  pitiless  shower,  so  did  Emily  Stan- 
hope look  up  and  smile  amid  kind  and  devoted  friends.  Her  lovely 
eyes  beamed  with  lustrous  softness  as  she  met  the  ardent  gaze  of 
Charles  Hammond,  who  watched  over  her  with  intense  affection, 
and,  by  Ins  kindness  and  love,  caused  her  gentle  soul  to  repose 
quietly  under  his  protecting  care.  After  spending  a  few  months 
with  her  reverend  friend — with  a  blushing  face,  and  a  trembling 
hand,  she  gave  herself  forever  to  the  object  of  her  dearest  affec- 
tions, who  received  her  from  Mr.  James  as  the  choicest  blessing 
heaven  could  bestow. 

On  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  winding  her  arm  around  her 
lover's,  with  a  look  of  ineffable  sweetness,  and  a  countenance  ra- 
diant with  smiles  and  tears,  she  asked  him  to  accompany  her  on 


FILIAL     PIETY     REWARDED.  35 

a  short  excursion.  With  a  basket  of  fresh  flowers  in  one  hand, 
culled  from  the  choicest  plants,  she  led  their  way  to  the  place  in 
silence.  Over  the  green  turf  which  covered  the  remains  of  her 
beloved  mother,  she  strewed  the  sweet  blossoms  of  spring,  and 
round  the  white  urn  of  love  she  twined  a  garland  of  jessamine  and 
roses,  formed  by  her  own  fair  hands,  and  bathed  with  her  flowing 
tears ;  then,  kneeling  upon  her  mother's  grave,  she  looked  upward 
as  if  to  invoke  her  sainted  spirit  to  smile  upon  and  bless  them. 
So  calm  and  tranquil  was  the  scene,  so  impassioned  her  look,  so 
exalted  her  piety,  so  free,  so  unmixed  with  earth,  that  her  hus- 
band, as  he  gazed  "upon  her,  felt  his  own  soul  imbued  with  the 
spirit  of  Emily's,  and,  like  her,  he  inhaled  the  very  atmosphere  of 
heaven. 

Years  have  passed  away,  but  the  place  remains.  It  is  hallowed 
by  the  recollection  of  those  who  sleep  within  its  bosom.  A  white 
stone,  inscribed  to  Filial  Piety,  points  the  wanderer  to  the  resting- 
place  of  Charles  and  Emily  Hammond,  and  their  sainted  mother. 


THE    CONTRAST; 

OR,    THE    BLUE    MANTILLA. 


CHARLES  MILNOR  and  Edward  Crayton,  were,  for  many  years, 
joint  partners  in  a  mercantile  house  in  the  city  of  Philadelphia, 
where  they  accumulated  an  immense  fortune.  When  they  closed 
their  business,  Mr.  Milnor  retired  with  his  family  about  two  miles 
from  the  city,  and  took  possession  of  a  beautiful  villa  he  had  pur- 
chased. He  married  in  early  life  an  amiable,  pious,  and  judicious 
woman ;  one  whom  he  loved  from  his  youth.  A  striking  simila- 
rity of  taste  existing  between  them,  rendered  every  object  they 
pursued  both  pleasant  and  delightful.  Heaven  had  blessed  them 
with  three  lovely  children — Charles,  Alice,  and  Augusta — who 
shared  equally  in  their  affections.  They  were  educated  by  their 
mother,  who  was  possessed  of  a  superior  mind,  and  had  received 
a  thorough  education.  Their  servants  were  faithful,  and  but  sel- 
dom exchanged— owing  to  the  prudent  management  of  Mrs.  Mil- 
nor. Her  knowledge  of  housewifery,  and  the  systematic  arrange- 
ment, afforded  them  leisure  hours  for  their  own  benefit,  without 
the  suffering  of  her  domestic  affairs  by  their  relaxation. 

Theirs  was  indeed  a  happy  family,  whose  chief  source  of  de- 
light sprung  from  their  own  hearts,  which  were  fountains  of  con- 
tentment, and  the  little  tributary  streams  that  flowed  from  them 
fertilized  every  spot  they  visited.  Mr.  Crayton  was  himself  fond 
of  parade  and  show,  and  exceedingly  fond  of  his  wife,  who,  sensi- 
ble of  her  complete  influence  over  him,  by  her  management  and 
tact  accomplished  every  undertaking.  Extravagant  in  the  highest 
degree,  her  ambition  knew  no  bounds  ;  every  new  and  fashionable 
article  was  eagerly  sought  alter  until  obtained,  when  the  gratifi- 
cation ceased  with  the  possession.  The  more  exorbitant  the 
price,  the  more  congenial  to  her  taste  for  display,  until  Mr.  Cray- 
ton  saw,  too  late  to  remedy  it,  the  evil  result  of  his  indulgence. 


THE     CONTRAST.  37 

The  last  article  she  had  fixed  her  eyes  upon  was  a  blue  man- 
tilla ;  the  extreme  beauty  of  the  color  rendered  it  an  object  of  at- 
traction, being  one  becoming  her  complexion,  and  she  was  deter- 
mined to  procure  it.  For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  her  husband 
was  resolved  not  to  purchase.  Their  children — Agnes,  Isabella, 
and  George — were  very  handsome,  but  ungoverned  and  unres- 
trained. They  were  seldom  the  companions  of  their  mother,  who 
should  have  concentrated  their  centre  of  attraction — whose  bosom, 
to  them,  should  have  been  a  receptacle  of  all  that  was  delightful, 
her  smile  their  meed  of  reward,  and  her  kiss  their  seal  of  enjoy- 
ment. They  were  placed  under  a  governess,  and  foreign  teachers, 
who  were  more  anxious  to  obtain  a  handsome  support,  than  to 
bend  the  young  minds,  committed  to  their  training,  as  woiil  I  be 
most  beneficial  to  them,  to  their  parents,  and  to  the  world.  Thus 
these  sweet  children  were  left  to  the  guidance  of  their  own  wills, 
without  that  restraint  which  would  have  rendered  them  agree- 
able to  all.  Mr.  Crayton  beheld  with  mingled  emotions  the 
situation  of  his  family  ;  his  expenses  were  enormous  ;  a  contin- 
ued routine  of  fashionable  life  engrossed  every  moment  of  time  ; 
and  not  until  he  felt  his  own  health  impaired  did  he  awake  fully 
to  the  misery  of  his  situation.  He  pitied,  while  he  admired,  his 
beautiful  wife,  the  victim  of  folly  and  dissipation.  He  was  ar- 
dently attached  to  his  children,  and  much,  indeed,  did  he  wish  for 
an  alteration  in  his  mode  of  living.  He  called  occasionally  on 
his  friend  Mr.  Milnor,  and  was  struck  with  the  order  and  regula- 
rity of  his  family;  and  wished  Mrs.  Crayton  and  his  children  to 
have  more  frequent  interviews  with  them — hoping  his  wife  might 
be  led  to  imitate  what  she  could  not  but  admire  in  Mrs.  Milnor, 
and  the  children  be  prompted  to  obedience  by  the  amiable  deport- 
ment of  the  little  Milnors.  Although  Mr.  Milnor  and  Mr.  Crayton 
were  daily  together,  their  families  were,  for  a  long  time,  strangers 
to  each  other.  A  sister  of  Mr.  Crayton's  married  under  the  most 
cheering  prospects,  but  her  hopes  were  soon  cut  off  in  the  death  of 
her  husband ;  and,  in  giving  birth  to  a  daughter,  she  expired,  leav- 
ing her  little  Emilie  in  the  care  of  her  brother,  in  whose  family 
she  became  a  member.  Although  surrounded  by  her  cousins,  who 
were  of  the  same  age  as  herself,  she  was  lonely,  and  sighed  for 
something  she  knew  not  what.  She  delighted  in  sitting  alone, 
gazing  upon  the  clear  blue  sky,  fancying  each  beautiful  fringed 
cloud,  as  it  floated  in  the  liquid  air,  the  abode  of  her  parents ;  and, 


38  THE      CONTRAST; 

when  oppressed  with  a  sense  of  her  desolation,  would  reach  forth 
her  dimpled  hands,  as  if  to  implore  their  blessing.  She  lovel  to 
ramble  among  the  flowers,  and  rear  their  drooping  heads ;  and 
was  never  more  happy  than  when  nursing  the  little  slips  commit- 
ted to  her  care  by  her  cousins,  who  seldom  gave  their  attention  to 
them — leaving,  like  their  mother,  the  cultivation  of  all  that  is 
lovely,  to  the  gardener  and  nature. 

One  day,  on  his  return  home,  Mr.  Crayton  expressed  his  desire 
for  his  wife  to  call  upon  Mrs.  Milnor. 

"  Why,  if  she  wishes  my  acquaintance,  does  she  not  call  on 
me  ?  but  I  imagine  she  is  such  a  home  body,  and  has  so  little 
intercourse  with  the  fashionable  world,  that  she  is  quite  out  of  the 
way  of  making  or  receiving  calls  from  them." 

"  You  are  much  mistaken  in  your  opinion,  Mrs.  Crayton," 
said  her  husband ;  "  I  have  been  there  a  number  of  times,  and  am 
anxious  you  should  call  upon  her.  I  will  order  tke  carrid0e  and 
go-" 

"  Well,  you  can  go  if  you  please,  but  I  shall  remain  at  home. 
I  do  not  like  to  be  dictated  to,  when  and  where  I  shall  go." 

"  1  do  not  know  wherein  I  have  dictated  ;  name  your  own 
time,  and  we  will  go  whenever  you  say." 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  these  two  hours  for  the  money  I 
asked  you  for  this  morning." 

"  Why,  really,  my  dear,  I  thought  you  had  given  up  that  fool- 
ish project." 

"  No,  indeed,  I  have  not;  and  if  I  am  not  there  by  eleven 
o'clock,  the  mantilla  will  be  sold,  as  it  was  to  be  kept  for  ma  no 
longer.  Have  you  the  money  ?" 

Mr.  Crayton  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  commenced  hum- 
ming an  air,  which  he  ever  did  when  he  felt  determined  not  to 
comply  with  a  request. 

"Oh,  do,  mamma,  go,"  said  Agnes. 

•'  Oh,  yes,  do,''  responded  Isabella. 

"  And  let  me  hold  the  whip,  papa,"  said  George. 

"  Life  is  but  a  song,"  said  Mr.  Crayton,  walking  up  and  down 
the  room,  occasionally  viewing  himself  in  a  large  mirror. 

"  Do  go,  mamma,"  said  the  children.    "  Father,  will  you  ?" 

"  Certainly,  if  it  is  your  mother's  wish." 

"Dear  papa,  if  you  will  just  drive  down  to  Coney's,  and  let 
mother  get  the  mantilla,  and  me  a  whip,"  said  George,  "  and  Ag 


THE      CONTRA ST.  39 

nes,  and  Isabella,  and  Emilie,  each,  one  of  those  beautiful  boxes 
made  at  the  fair,  she  will  go." 

"  Only  hear  these  sweet  coaxers,"  said  his  wife  ;  and  putting 
her  arm  in  her  husband's,  being  determined  to  get  the  mantilla, 
she  promenaded  the  room  with  him,  to  the  great  delight  of  their 
little  ones,  who  followed  them. 

"•What  a  dear  little  group  of  love,"  continued  Mrs.  Cray  ton. 
"  Come,  love,  please  us  all ;  give  me  the  bill  I  have  asked  you 
for,  and  we  will  go ;  and  you  will  have  the  sweet  consolation  of 
knowing  you  have  made  us  all  happy." 

"  Oh,  do,  papa,"  cried  the  children ;  "  it  is  a  beautiful  morning, 
and  we  want  a  ride  very  much." 

Mr.  Crayton  hesitated  a  moment;  then,  putting  his  pocket-book 
into  his  wife's  hand,  he  yielded  to  her  request,  in  the  hope  it 
might  eventually  be  for  the  best. 

"Oh,  this  is  really  very  good — very  kind;"  then,  call  ing  for  her 
hat  and  shawl,  and  ordering  the  children  to  be  ready  on  their 
return,  she  gave  her  hand  to  her  husband,  and,  putting  on  her 
sweetest  smiles,  asked  him,  "  if  she  did  not  look  happy  ?" 

Mr.  Crayton,  with  a  sigh,  replied,  "  Yes,  if  it  would  but  last  : 
but  I  have  not  the  most  distant  hope  the  mantilla  will  satisfy  you; 
for,  as  has  ever  been  the  case,  the  possession  of  this  article  will 
only  make  you  wish  for  another." 

"  Oh,  fye,  Mr.  Crayton,  why  do  you  wish  to  check  my  viva- 
city,  when  you  know  how  very  nervous  I  am  ?  I  am  almost 
tempted  to  be  angry  with  you  ;"  then,  casting  her  eyes  upon  the 
ground  with  much  tact,  her  husband,  fearing  an  overflow  of  un- 
pleasant words,  called  aloud  for  the  carriage. 

"  Your  most  obedient,  Mrs.  Crayton — you  have  come  just  in 
time,"  said  the  witty  tradesman.  "  Five  minutes  more,  and  the 
mantilla  would  have  been  sold ;  there  are  three  ladies  now  wait, 
ing  for  it." 

"  How  very  fortunate  we  are,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Crayton, 
turning  to  her  husband — her  spirits  reviving  at  the  idea  of  being 
the  purchaser. 

"  I  think  the  mantilla,  you  said,  I  might  have  for  eighty-five 
dollars,  the  pocket-handkerchief  for  thirty,  the  cape  for  twenty-five, 
and  six  yards  of  lawn  for  fifty,  which  makes  one  hundred  and 
ninety  dollars;  take  this  bill,  and  hand  me  the  remainder." 

"  Thank  you,  madam,  thank  you ;  but  will  you  not  just  look 


40  THE     CONTRAST. 

at  this  piece  o|  dark  satin  ?  It  is  partly  engaged,  but  it  is  such  a 
good  fit  for  the  mantilla,  and  so  becoming  to  your  complexion," 
holding  it  up,  and  letting  the  rich  folds  fall  over  her  white  hands, 
her  taper  fingers  peeping  from  beneath  as  if  to  show  the  contrast. 
"  Partly  engaged,  I  allow,"  whispering  her  ;  "  but  you  have  been 
such  a  constant  customer  of  mine,  that  I  really  feel  bound  to  let 
you  have  it,  if  you  wish."  ,  , 

Mrs.  Crayton  took  up  the  satin  and  examined  it.  It  was,  in- 
deed, beautiful  ;  and  so  soft  as  to  show  no  marks  of  pressure. 

"  There  is  but  one  like  it  in  the  city,  and  that  I  sold  to  Judge 
Laurens'  lady.  It  was  not  quite  so  nice  as  this.  I  was  fearful 
she  would  discover  it,  for  she  seemed  most  inclined  to  .take  this; 
but  I  thought  of  you,  and  just  laid  it  aside,  praising  the  piece 
she  purchased  very  highly,  that  you  might,  if  you  wished,  take 
this  for  yourself — there  is  but  one  pattern." 

Mrs.  Crayton  wanted  the  satin — its  being  superior  to  Mrs. 
Laurens',  increased  her  desire. 

"Come,"  said  Mr.  Crayton,  "the  children  will  be  waiting  for 
us." 

"  Stop  one  moment,  my  dear ;  do  you  not  think  this  satin 
elegant  ?" 

Mr.  Crayton  said  nothing,  but  looked  reproachfully  at  her. 

"  Oh,  you  see,  my  dear  madam,  your  husband  has  no  objec- 
tions ;  let  me  do  it  up  for  you." 

"  How  much  is  it  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Crayton. 

"  It  comes  to  just  the  remainder  of  the  bill,  with  the  exception 
of  these  three  quarters  of  a  yard,  which  I  will  throw  in.  It  is 
quite  a  bargain — quite  a  bargain,  I  assure  you." 

"  Mr.  Crayton,  if  you  have  no  objections,  I  will  take  it." 

Her  husband  bit  his  lip  with  vexation,  and,  turning  round,  bent 
his  steps  toward  the  door.  The  bundle  was  placed  in  the  carriage 
by  the  delighted  shopkeeper,  who  bowed  low  to  his  fair  customer 
as  she  ascended  the  steps,  when  they  went  home  in  silence — Mr. 
Crayton  offended,  and  his  wife  conscious  she  had  gone  a  step  too 
far,  but  determined  to  conceal  her  feelings.  The  mantilla  had 
occupied  her  thoughts  both  day  and  night,  but  never  met  with  her 
husband's  approbation :  he  seemed  from  the  first  opposed  to  it. 
She  had  "  priced"  the  other  articles  unknown  to  him,  and  knew 
not  how  lie  would  bear  the  purchase,  but  as  he  had  given  her 
much  more  than  she  expected,  she  presumed  to  take  them.  The 


THE     CONTRAST.  41 

satin  was  what  she  never  thought  of.  But  she  was  taken  in  the 
snare  of  the  practised  salesman,  and  could  not  resist  the  tempta- 
tion ;  she  knew  her  husband  had  too  much  pride  to  deny  her  in 
public,  and  she  took  advantage  of  his  situation  to  her  future 
sorrow.  On  the  steps  of  their  fine  dwelling,  stood  the  children 
equipped  for  the  ride. 

"  What  have  you  got  for  me — and  for  me  ?"  cried  the  children, 
after  they  were  seated. 

Mr.  Crayton  looked  at  his  wife,  who  had  been  so  completely 
engrossed  in  her  own  selfish  motives,  that  she  had  forgotten  their 
simple  requests. 

"  Did  you  get  me  a  whip  ?"  said  George.  "  I  said  I  wanted  a 
whip,  so  t  could  drive  the  horses." 

"  Did  you  buy  me  the  box  and  the  screen  ?"  said  the  girls ; 
"  oh,  do  let  us  see  them  ?" 

"  What  did  you  expect,  Emilie  ?"  inquired  her  uncle. 

"  Not  anything." 

"  Well,  I  declare,"  said  the  heartless  Mrs.  Crayton,  "  you  alone 
are  not  disappointed  " 

"  What  is  this  ?"  said  George,  taking  up  the  bundle,  which  they 
omitted  leaving  at  home.  "  My  whip  is  here,  I  know  ?" 

"  No,  my  child,  it  is  not ;  I  forgot  to  buy  it,  but  you  shall  have 
one." 

"  I  want  one  now,  and  will  have  one  ;"  and  down  went  the 
contents  of  the  bundle. 

"Oh,  you  image  !"  said  Mrs.  Crayton,  picking  them  up;  "my 
mantilla  is  unfolded,  and  my  lace  undone." 

George,  persisting  in  searching  for  his  whip,  became  entangled 
in  the  lace,  and,  in  extricating  himself,  tore  it. 

"Oh,  my  lace  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Crayton  ;  "  George,  you  must 
be  corrected.  Mr.  Crayton,  why  do  you  not  speak  to  him  ?" 

"He  wants  his  whip,"  he  replied  ;  "  and  he  is  a  child." 

Mrs.  Crayton  felt  the  reproof.  The  girls  helped  her  to  collect 
the  articles.  Mr.  Crayton  took  George  upon  his  knee,  and  gave 
him  the  driver's  whip.  Thus  the  difficulties  were  settled,  and  the 
children  became  composed  as  they  drove  up  to  Mr.  Milnor's 
dwelling. 

"  I  have  never  seen  them  in  their  new  habitation,"  said  Mrs. 
Crayton.  "  It  is  a  pity  that  people  of  so  much  wealth  should  be 
so  penurious;  no  one  knows  they  are  al;ve." 


42  THE     CONTRAST. 

"  In  your  circle  they  may  not,"  replied  her  husband  ;  "  but  ask 
those  around  them,"  pointing  to  the  neat  white  houses  on  either 
side  of  the  road. 

As  the  carriage  drove  up  the  avenue,  the  children  were  told  to 
behave  well.  They  were  met  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milnor,  and  re- 
ceived with  much  politeness. 

"  You  have  got  a  very  pretty  place,"  said  Mrs.  Crayton,  aston- 
ished at  the  elegance  of  the  hall  and  rooms  through  which  they 


"  I  believe  you  have  never  called  upon  us  since  we  moved," 
said  Mrs.  Milnor. 

"Why,  no;  I  have  so  many  engagements  always  on  hand, 
that  I » 

"  Come  here,  Emilie,"  said  Mrs.  Milnor,  very  prudently  turn- 
ing the  conversation,  in  order  to  prevent  the  fashionable  beauty 
framing  a  wrong  excuse.  "  How  do  the  plants  grow  that  Alice 
gave  you  ?" 

"  Oh,  finely  ;  they  are  as  large  as  those,"  pointing  to  a  number 
arranged  in  the  window. 

Agnes  and  Isabella,  observing  a  beautiful  geranium  in  bloom, 
without  thought,  broke  off  a  large  branch.  At  that  moment,  Alice 
and  Augusta,  with  their  brother,  entered. 

"Good  morning,  my  dears,"  said  Mr.  Crayton,  " you  see  I 
have  fulfilled  my  promise,  and  brought  you  your  young  friends 
to  see  you." 

"Bless  me,"  said  Mrs.  Crayton,  taking  Alice  by  the  hand, 
"  how  j'ou  have  grown  !  and  Charles,  too  !  why,  really,  I  am 
surprised ;"  and  a  feeling  of  envy  rankled  in  her  bosom  as  she 
looked  upon  them. 

Charles  and  his  sisters  returned  her  compliments  with  so  much 
dignity  and  ease  that  she  was  confounded. ' 

"  Come,"  said  George  and  his  sisters,  "  come,  let  us  go  down 
the  lawn — we  want  to  see  the  flowers  and  the  beautiful  pond." 

"  Shall  we  go,  dear  mother  ?"  inquired  the  little  Milnors. 

"  You  may,  but  be  careful  of  the  plants." 

Alice  took  Emilie's  hand,  and  away  they  flew,  followed  by 
George,  with  the  whip,  of  which  he  still  kept  possession. 

"  What  have  you  here  .'"  inquired  Mrs.  Crayton,  turning  over 
some  new  books  which  lay  upon  the  centre-table.  "  Anything 
new  ?" 


THE     CONTRAST.  43 

"  This  is  the  '  Patriarch,'  and  this  the  'Christian  Family  Ma- 
gazine,' "  replied  Mrs.  Milnor ;  "  the  plates  in  both  are  very  fine, 
and  they  are  excellent  works." 

"  Dear  me,  do  you  read  them  ?  I  seldom  read,  and  when  I  do, 
it  is  always  my  favorite  authors — 'Buhver,'  and  'Byron,'  and 
sometimes '  The  Lady's  Book' — all  other  reading  appears  insipid." 

"  We  have  a  great  variety  of  books.  Here  is  Abbott's  works, 
Phillips's  writings,  and  my  favorite  Cowper." 

"  What  is  this  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Crayton,  taking  up  an  elegantly 
bound  book. 

"  '  Milton's  Paradise  Lost.' " 

"  Mercy  !     Did  you  ever  read  it  through  ?" 

"  Often,"  replied  Mrs.  Milnor. 

"  Why,  I  should  think  it  would  take  you  an  age.  Is  it  a  late 
production  ?" 

Mrs.  Milnor  caught  Mr.  Crayton's  eye,  who  blushed  deeply  at 
his  wife's  ignorance. 

"  '  Johnson's  works,'  '  Montgomery's  Poems,'  '  Rogers,' 
•  Campbell,'  '  Henry  Kirke  While' — why,  these  are  quite  new ;" 
and,  laying  them  down,  she  walked  to  the  window. 

"  Isn't  it  very  lonely  out  here  ?" 

"  By  no  means,"  replied  Mrs.  Milnor;  "  our  time  is  all  occupied." 

"  Who  are  your  teachers?" 

"  Mrs.  Milnor  is  the  principal  one,"  replied  her  husband. 

"  Mercy !  you  teach  your  children  ?  I  should  never  have  pa- 
tience. I  am  always  rejoiced  when  school  commences,  that  I 
may  be  relieved  from  their  noise  and  confusion.  But,  pray,  how 
do  you  employ  yourselves  ?" 

"  It  would  take  some  time  to  make  you  acquainled  with  my 
form  of  managing.  Shall  we  walk  out  and  meet  the  children  ?" 

"  Oh,  yes,  for  it  is  nearly  time  for  us  to  go." 

"  Will  you  not  spend  the  day  ?  you  surely  cannot  be  lonely 
with  your  husband  and  children." 

Mrs.  Crayton  pleaded  an  engagement,  and  they  walked  down 
the  lawn.  Charles  and  Alice  were  busily  engaged  in  arranging 
the  pots  of  flowers,  some  of  which  were  overthrown  and  the 
branches  broken.  At  the  same  moment  came  Agnes  and  Isabella, 
followed  by  George  with  his  whip  in  his  hand.  In  his  haste  he 
overthrew  a  beautiful  verbena,  and  broke  the  pot  which  con- 
tained it. 


44  THE     CONTRAST. 

"  You  have  made  sad  work  with  the  plants,  my  children,"  said 
Mr.  Cray  ton,  very  much  mortified,  and  trying  to  replace  them. 

"  Oh,  they  are  nothing  but  children,"  said  his  wife ;  "  I  know 
you  will  forgive  them." 

"  See,  he  has  broken  another !"  said  Agnes. 

"  No,  I  did  not — 'twas  you,"  he  replied,  with  a  stroke  of  his 
whip. 

"  Come,  come,"  said  his  mother,  "  you  are  crazy,  I  believe. 
Really,  Mrs.  Milnor,  you  have  a  very  fine  yard  The  children  are 
like  birds  let  out  of  a  cage  ;  we  brought  them  out  for  liberty,  and 
they  do  so  enjoy  it." 

"Shall  we  return?"  inquired  Mr.  Crayton,  extremely  grieved. 

"  Oh,  don't  go,"  cried  the  children,  "  we  want  to  stay  longer." 

Mrs.  Crayton  thought  of  her  new  purchase,  and  told  them  they 
must.  On  returning  to  the  house,  they  visited  the  music  room, 
in  which  was  an  elegant  organ,  a  piano,  and  harp  :  at  the  end  of 
the  room  was  an  extensive  library  of  choice  books.  Charles 
played  the  organ,  Alice  the  piano,  and  Mrs.  Milnor  the  harp.  At 
Mrs.  Crayton's  request,  they  performed  a  few  pieces  in  such  an 
admirable  manner  that  her  heart  died  within  her,  as  she  listened  to  a 
hymn  in  which  every  member  of  the  family  joined.  Mrs.  Milnor 
ordered  refreshments,  and  the  children,  without  ceremony,  enjoyed 
the  banquet.  Strawberries,  raspberr  es,  cream  and  cake,  disap- 
peared under  their  touch,  like  dew  in  the  sunlight. 

"  Will  you  come  again  and  see  your  young  friends  ?"  inquired 
Mrs.  Milnor. 

"  Yes,  ma'am,"  replied  George,  "  if  you  will  give  us  more  of 
your  nice  fruit." 

"  I  wish  I  could  stay  now,"  said  Emilie. 

"  Do  you  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Milnor  "  If  your  uncle  and  aunt 
are  willing,  you  may  stay." 

"  Can  I  stay,  dear  aunt  ?" 

"I  have  no  objections,  if  you  wish  to  stay,  and  Mrs.  Milnor 
requests  you." 

"  Let  her  remain,  if  you  please ;  we  shall  be  happy  to  have  her 
spend  a  few  weeks  with  us." 

"  Good  morning,"  and,  with  his  whip  in  his  hand,  George  led 
the  way  to  the  carriage,  followed  by  his  parents  and  sisters. 

Mrs.  Milnor  soon  arranged  her  books  and  flowers,  and,  after  a 
few  orders  to  the  servants,  entered  the  recitation  room. 


THE      CONTRAST.  45 

"  My  dear  Emilie,  as  you  have  expressed  a  wish  to  remain  with 
us,  you  must  submit  to  the  rules  of  the  school,  and  if  you  wish, 
can  study  with  the  girls;  would  you  like  that?" 

"Oh,  yes,  very  much." 

"  Well,  here  is  a  geography,  and  here  are  globes,  atlases,  etc. ; 
your  first  lesson  will  be  on  this  page.  Have  you  ever  studied 
geography  ?" 

"  I  have  a  little ;  I  like  it  much,  but  aunt  says  it  is  too  hard  for 
us,  and  not  very  necessary." 

"  Have  you  studied  grammar?" 

"  Yes,  madam,  and  can  parse  very  well ;  aunt  says  that  it  is  a 
dry  study,  and  we  must  be  older  to  understand  either." 

"  Well,  my  dear,  we  shall  see  what  proficiency  you  can  make 
here." 

"  I  will  show  you,"  said  Charles,  who  was  older  than  his 
sisters.  *• 

"  You  must  not  think  you  are  too  young  to  learn  any  of  the 
branches  my  children  study.  You  must  be  patient,  be  willing  to 
be  taught,  and  apply  yourself  closely." 

The  evening  closed  with  reading  a  chapter  in  the  Bible  with 
the  notes,  and  singing  a  hymn,  in  which  all,  including  the  servants, 
joined.  A  prayer  was  offered  by  Mr.  Milnor,  whose  grateful 
heart  went  up  in  holy  aspirations  under  a  sense  of  the  goodness 
of  God.  After  Emilie  retired  to  rest,  she  could  not  sleep ;  the  idea 
of  returning  home  was  painful.  At  her  uncle's  all  was  noise  and 
confusion.  Continued  calls  occupying  most  of  her  aunt's  time, 
either  in  making  or  receiving  them,  she  paid  but  little  attention  to 
her  children,  who  were  often  ill-natured  it  restrained  by  their  go- 
verness, and  out  of  patience  with  their  teachers  if  they  exacted  a 
perfect  lesson.  They  flew  with  every  little  complaint  to  theirmother, 
who,  fatigued  with  continued  excitements,  satisfied  them  by  say- 
ing she  would  write  an  excuse — thus  every  attempt  of  the  teach- 
ers for  their  improvement,  was  rendered  abortive.  They  were 
pleased  with  Emilie,  and  took  much  pleasure  in  instructing  her. 
But  it  was  in  vain  to  keep  up  any  regular  system  in  the  school, 
it  being  continually  interrupted  by  calls  to  ride,  to  see  particular 
friends,  etc.  ;  thus  their  education  was  neglected.  Mr.  Crayton 
saw  with  pain  the  situation  of  his  family,  but  knew  of  no  way 
in  which  it  could  be  remedied.  He  was  struck  with  the  order, 
neatness,  and  regularity  of  Mr.  Milnor's,  whenever  he  called ;  and 


46  THE      CONTRAST. 

concluded  the  best  way  to  commence  a  reformation  in  his  own, 
was  to  take  Mrs.  Crayton  there,  with  her  children.  He  was 
much  attached  to  Emilie ;  saw  how  unlike  in  many  ways  she  was 
from  her  cousins,  and  knew  she  was  unhappy.  He  conversed 
with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milnor  respecting  her — the  latter  proposed  her 
staying  with  them,  which  was  brought  about  as  has  before  been 
mentioned. 

Emilie  was  left  with  a  handsome  \estate,  and  only  required 
proper  instruction  to  be  all  he  wished.  She  was  the  exact  image 
of  his  sister,  whom  he  idolized  ;  and  he  felt  a  deep  interest  in  her 
welfare.  •  Owing  to  Mrs.  Crayton's  extravagance  and  utter  ne- 
glect of  household  duties,  their  expenses  were  enormous,  and 
continually  increased.  On  looking  into  his  affairs,  he  was  aston- 
ished at  finding  his  expenditures  much  larger  than  he  apprehended. 
The  pressure  of  the  times  he  felt  to  bear  hard  upon  him.  One  bank, 
in  which  he  had  thirty  thousand  dollars,  failed  ;  others  were  fol- 
lowing— failures  every  day,  and  he  trembled  for  himself.  It  was 
in  vain  for  him  to  inform  his  wife  that  they  were  living  too  fast, 
that  the  times  were  hard,  and  every  kind  of  business  in  a  fluctuating 
state.  She  only  laughed  at  him,  told  him  he  was  growing  old, 
and  that  avarice  increased  with  years.  Fashion  was  her  idol,  a 
shrine  at  which  she  worshipped,  and  wreathed  with  her  own  wild 
fancies.  She  gave  large  parties,  attended  places  of  amusement, 
was  excessively  vain,  fond  of  flattery,  and  little  suspected  those 
loudest  in  her  praise,  who  were  the  first,  when  absent,  to  laugh  at 
her  ignorance  and  folly. 

Mr.  Crayton  hesitated  a  long  time  about  the  mantilla,  not  on 
account  of  the  price,  but,  seeing  no  end  to  her  requests,  he  felt 
it  was  time  to  be  firm.  She  had  many  times  in  a  joke  called  him 
•Rip  van  Winkle,'  and,  although  he  knew  it  was  done  in  mere 
pleasantry,  still  he  saw  with  his  own  eyes,  a  resemblance.  He 
knew  of  no  way  to  induce  her  to  call  on  the  Milnors  except  by 
gratifying  her  in  the  purchase,  and  it  was  to  accomplish  that  end 
he  gave  her  the  money,  not  knowing  what  other  articles  she  had 
in  view.  These,  too,  he  could  have  put  up  with,  but  her  effrontery 
in  purchasing  the  satin,  and  taking  advantage  of  him  in  public, 
was  a  point  beyond  what  he  conceived  to  be  right.  And  in 
this  last  act,  she  severed  the  chain  which  had  hitherto  bound 
them,  and  her  beauty  from  that  hour  ceased  to  attract.  His  whole 
soul  was  in  requisition  for  his  children — he  saw  the  precipice  on 


THE     CONTRAST.  47 

which  they  stood.  He  felt  his  own  health  yielding  to  the  nervous 
tremor,  which,  by  weariness  of  mind,  shook  his  frame,  and  an 
occasional  coagh  he  could  not  control.  When  they  returned,  the 
bundle  was  opened ;  and  when  the  mantilla  was  unfolded  and 
thrown  around  her,  she  discovered  a  large  spot  on  the  corner.  It 
was  found  to  be  a  stain  from  a  bunch  oi  strawberries,  accidentally 
dropped  into  the  bundle  by  the  children.  The  lace  was  torn  in  two 
places.  After  scolding  George,  and  fretting  at  the  servants,  for 
not  leaving  it  at  home,  she  tried  in  vain  to  remedy  the  injury;  it 
was  seriously  hurt  and  looked  bad. 

"  Are  you  not  ashamed,  George  ?  you  must  be  punished,  indeed 
you  must." 

"  Why  did  you  not  buy  me  a  whip  ?  I  should  not  have  touched 
them  if  you  had.  I  only  wanted  a  little  whip  to  drive  the  horses, 
mamma." 

"  Go  away — you  are  a  troublesome  boy.  How  the  satin  is 
injured ;  dear  me  !  1  wish  I  had  never  seen  the  Milnors,  nor  heard 
of  them." 

"  Oh,  mamma,  I  do  not,"  said  the  girls ;  "  I  loved  to  be  there ; 
what  a  fine  yard,  and  what  a  beautiful  woman ;  how  pleasant 
she  spoke  to  her  children." 

"  And  how  well  her  children  behaved,"  said  Mr.  Crayton.  "  I 
hope  my  own  little  boy  and  girls  will  pattern  after  them.  I  was 
grieved  that  you  should  behave  so  rude,  and  overturn  the  pots  of 
flowers ;  you  must  never  do  so  again." 

"  I  never  upset  them,"  said  George. 

"  Yes,  you  did,"  said  Agnes.  "  And  where  is  the  orange  you 
picked  ?  You  need  not  deny  it,  for  I  saw  you,"  said  Isabella. 

Poor  little  George,  already  irritated  by  his  mother,  and  sensible  he 
had  done  wrong,  could  not  restrain  his  passions ;  and  giving  his 
sister  a  blow,  said,  "  take  that !" 

"  Stop,  stop  !"  said  their  father;  "come  here,  and  I  will  tell 
you  what  I  wish  you  to  do  in  future." 

"  Mercy,  Mr.  Crayton,  do  let  the  children  be;  you  are  always 
raising  a  breeze  in  some  way  or  another.  If  it  had  not  been  for 
the  Milnors,  all  would  have  been  well,  and  my  mantilla  would 
not  have  been  spoiled.  Do,  pray,  let  the  children  alone,  they 
have  done  no  material  injury  to  anything." 

"  Done  no  injury,  Mrs.  Crayton !  Have  you  not  just  scolded 
George  for  injuring  your  shawl,  and  said  he  ought  to  be  corrected? 


48        .  THE    CONTRAST. 

His  behavior  at  the  Milnors,  in  my  opinion,  requires  far  more 
censure.  I  do  hope  we  have  all  seen  that  in  our  friends  we  shall 
delight  to  imitate." 

"  Imitate  !  Do  you  think  I  am  going  to  keep  school,  and  con- 
fine myself  to  the  drudgery  of  housekeeping,  cooking,  etc.  ?  but  1 
am  both  hungry  and  tired." 

"  And  vexed,"  said  Mr.  Crayton,  "about  the  mantilla." 

A  servant  entering,  announced  dinner  was  ready  ;  when  the 
children  scampered  after  him,  followed  by  their  parents. 

The  next  day  Mr.  Crayton  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Milnor, 
saying  Emilie  would  like  to  remain  with  them  a  few  weeks,  per- 
haps months,  with  her  aunt's  permission.  Mrs.  Crayton  con- 
sented, quite  will-ng  to  be  released  from  her  niece,  who,  young 
as  she  was,  became  often  a  silent  reprover  of  her  actions.  George 
bad  his  hobby-horse  and  whip,  the  girls  their  embroidered  boxes, 
and  all  went  on  as  usual. 

"We  will,  if  you  please,  ride  to  town  this  afternoon,  and  take 
the  children  to  the  water  works,"  said  Mr.  Milnor,  to  his  wife, 
one  pleasant  morning. 

"  I  will  mention  it  to  them,"  she  replied,  "  and  we  will  go." 

"  Shall  we  return  Mrs.  Crayton's  call  ?"  he  inquired. 

"  I  think  we  will ;  I  should  like  to  see  how  they  appear  at 
home.  Emilie  is  a  very  interesting  child  ;  she  certainly  has  the 
most  discernment  I  ever  saw  one  possess  at  her  age  ;  she  has  al- 
ready wound  herself  around  my  heart.  I  am  fearful  her  cousins 
are  suffering,  in  consequence  of  improper  example,  from  a  reverse, 
where  they  ought  to  derive  the  most  profit-  -a  mothers  ex-ample 
and  instruction." 

"I  fear  the  same,"  replied  Mr.  Milnor;  "I  tremble  for  my 
friend.  He  has,  it  is  true,  many  imperfections,  but  some  excellent 
traits  of  character.  He  is  the  dupe  of  his  wife — an  artful,  design- 
ing, ignorant,  ungrateful  woman.  He  married  her  without  a 
penny — married  her  for  her  beauty  ;  he  loves  hi$ 'children,  and 
of  late  has  manifested  his  anxiety  for  them." 

"  Why  does  he  let  her  have  such  influence  over  him  ?  Why 
not  at  once  put  a  stop  to  her  extravagance,  and  deny  her  ?" 

"  Because  she  has  so  much  tact  to  manage  him.  He  hates  confu- 
sion ;  and  would  rather  suffer  that  he  may  have  peace.  He  \va§ 
unwell  when  he  called  last ;  he  has  a  cough,  and  looks  pale  and 


THE     CONTRAST.  49 

care-worn.  I  am  fearful,  should  these  times  continue,  he  may 
be  still  a  greater  loser.  He  has  indorsed  notes  for  a  large  amount 
for  two  of  our  great  business  men,  who,  to-day,  I  hear,  are  calling 
in  their  accounts." 

"  We  will  call  there  this  afternoon,  and,  in  the  meantime,  I  will 
attend  to  the  children's  recitations ;  we  shall  be  ready  by  four." 

As  Mrs.  Milnor  entered  the  study,  she  found  the  children 
busily  engaged  in  studying  the  globes,  and  pointing  out  particular 
places  to  Emilie,  showing  her  the  meridians,  equator,  latitudes 
and  longitude,  of  which  she  understood  but  little.  These  neces- 
sary items  had  been  overlooked,  and  she  was  anxious  to  learn 
every  particular.  Their  lesson  was  a  description  of  Palestine. 
With  delight  did  Emilie  listen  to  Mrs.  Milnor,  as  she  mingled  the 
history  of  the  Jews  with  their  lesson — commencing  with  their  ear- 
liest history.  Emilie,  to  whom  the  theme  was  new,  listened  with 
intenseness  to  the  description  given  of  Abraham  and  his  descend- 
ants. As  Mrs.  Milnor  led  her  through  their  wanderings  until  their 
entrance  into  the  promised  land ;  and  gave  their  history,  their  types 
and  shadows,  their  sacrifices,  their  captivity,  ele.,  to  the  birth  of 
the  promised  Messiah,  she  became  entranced.  Mrs.  Milnor,  pleased 
and  gratified  with  the  deep  interest  she  took  in  the  story,  drew  her 
affectionately  to  her  bosom ;  and  pictured  the  Saviour  in  such 
glowing  colors,  that  her  young  heart  seemed  as  if  it  would  burst 
its  frail  tenement. 

"  This  is  the  Saviour  who  sweat  drops  of  blood  in  the  garden  of 
Gethsemane,  and  who  expired  upon  the  cross  to  save  sinners — 
this  is  the  God  we  worship  ;  and  will  you  love  him,  too  ?  You 
have  no  father,  nor  mother,  my  dear  Emilie,  but  God  will  be  both, 
if  you  put  your  confidence  in  him." 

Thus  did  this  excellent  woman  lead  the  little  orphan  to  Him  in 
whom  she  afterwards  found  comfort. 

"Your  dear  father  intends  taking  you  all  to  town  this  after- 
noon, and  I  will  now  release  you ;  you  must  be  ready  precisely 
at  four  " 

At  the  hour  appointed,  the  coach  was  at  the  door,  and  soon 
each  one  of  the  happy  family  were  seated.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milnor, 
with  the  truest  pleasure,  pointed  out  the  surrounding  scenery,  and 
the  children  were  delighted. 

"  See  what  a  beautiful  world  God  has  made,  my  children,"  said 
their  father ;  "  how  he  clothes  the  field  with  grass  and  flowers — 


50  THECONTRASTi 

how  the  harvest  bends  with  its  rich  stores ;  and,  like  the  waves 
of  the  ocean,  rises  and  falls  beneath  the  gentle  breeze,  forming 
the  most  perfect  shades.  Behold  the  clouds,  how  sweetly  they 
blend  their  gorgeous  hues,  and  sail  away  in  the  distance  like 
islands  of  the  blessed.  We  shall  have,  I  think,  a  brilliant  sunset 
when  we  return." 

"  Dear  father !"  said  the  children,  "  will  you  have  the  curtains 
up  that  we  may  see  the  sun's  rays  upon  the  mountains,  and  watch 
his  retiring  beams  as  we  ride  upon  the  banks  of  the  Delaware  ?" 

"  I  would  much  rather  look  at  the  fields,  and  remain  in  the  coach 
with  you,  than  go  to  my  aunt's,  or  ride  around  the  town,"  said 
Emilie. 

"  Why,  my  dear,  do  you  not  wish  to  see  your  uncle,  aunt  and 
cousins,  and  shop  with  us  ?  are  there  no  little  things  you  wish  to 
purchase  ?" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  love  my  uncle  dearly;  I  do  want  to  see  him," 
said  Emilie,  brushing  away  a  tear  ;  "  and  my  aunt  and  cousins, 
too,  but  I  do  not  want  to  stay  with  them." 

"  You  shul!  return  with  us,  my  dear." 

"  May  I  ?  that  is  all  I  desire ;  and  I  would  like  to  buy  some 
oranges  for  the  poor  sick  woman  we  visited  last  evening." 

"  You  shall,  my  love,  and  carry  them  to  her  when  you  return." 

"  I  love  to  go  with  you  to  visit  poor  Mrs.  N.,  and  hear  her 
talk  about  heaven  ;  she  said  we  should  all  meet  there  by  and  by, 
and  be  happy." 

Snap  went  the  coachman's  whip,  as  they  turned  the  street  by 
Girard  College. 

"  Drive  slowly,"  said  Mr.  Milnor,  "  while  we  view  this  noble 
edifice." 

"  Mr.  Girard  was  a  good  man  to  do  so  much  for  the  poor,  was 
he  not?" 

".  Yes,  my  son,  he  was  compassionate  and  full  of  benevolence." 

"  Was  he  very  rich,  father  ?"  inquired  the  girls. 

"  He  was.  He  endowed  this  college,  and  thus  immortalized  his 
name.  Through  coming  time  he  will  be  handed  down  to  posterity, 
like  many  other  great  and  good  men.  Drive  now  to  the  water- 
works," said  Mr.  Milnor. 

Here  the  children  were  delighted,  as  their  father  explained  in 
what  manner  the  water  was  conducted  in  its  devious  course  through 
the  city. 


THE      CONTRAST.  51 

"  I  wish  you  could  have  been  with  me  at  the  Croton  celebra- 
tion in  New- York,"  said  Mr.  Milnor,  '•  it  was,  indeed,  a  splendid 
affair." 

"  How  far  is  the  Croton  River  lake  from  the  city  ?"  inquired 
Charles. 

"  It  is  forty-five  miles  from  the  Battery ;  it  cost  the  city  twelve 
millions  of  dollars ;  a  large  sum,  but  well  appropriated.  The 
fountain  in  the  Park  is  very  beautiful,  its  jets  throwing  the  water 
sixty  feet  into  the  air.  I  saw  it  playing,  and  its  appearance  was 
like  a  silver  tree ;  the  sun-light  on  the  spray  was  fine,  forming 
ten  thousand  diadems  sparkling  with  excessive  brightness.  So 
transparent  were  the  streams,  and  so  tremblingly  beautiful  did  the 
beams  of  a  noon-day  sun  fall  on  them,  that  they  wore  the  semblance 
of  magic  as  their  mimic  rainbows  fantastically  arched  the  scene." 

"  Do,  dear  father  !  tell  us  the  particulars  of  the  celebration." 

"  At  sunrise,  one  hundred  guns  were  fired,  and  all  the  bells  in 
the  city  were  rung.  Every  one  seemed  to  wake  up  upon  the  ac- 
casion,  and  in  less  than  an  hour  the  streets  and  public  places  be- 
gan to  be  filled.  In  the  centre  of  the  Bowling-Green  there  was  a 
beautiful  temporary  fountain,  constructed  of  shells,  and  marble 
images  of  the  Graces,  etc.,  arranged  with  great  taste,  and  having 
eight  jets,  throwing  small  streams  to  a  height  of  some  twenty  feet. 
The  procession  was  very  large,  consisting  of  the  various  societies, 
fire  companies,  etc.,  and  was  two  hours  and  fifteen  minutes  in 
passing  Niblo's  Garden.  You  would  have  been  delighted  to  have 
seen  it  all,  but  particularly  a  little  boat  eight  feet  lonsj,  mounted  upon 
wheels ;  in  it  were  seated  two  little  girls  and  two  boys,  some 
seven  or  eight  years  old,  tastefully  dressed  and  bearing  flags ;  the 
boat  was  inscribed  '  The  Sisters  of  the  Croton  Lake.'  Among 
others  was  the  identical  press  lately  brought  from  England  by  J. 
B.  Murray,  Esq.,  on  which  Franklin  there  worked.  Colonel 
Stone,  the  oldest  representative  of  the  craft,  was  comportably  seated 
in  a  large  arm-chair,  and  presided  over  the  typographical  perform- 
ance with  due  grace  and  dignity.  Copies  of  the  ode  of  General 
Morris  were  worked  off  and  distributed  through  the  crowd,  as  the 
procession  moved  along  the  streets ;  the  one  I  brought  you  was 
struck  off  in  Broadway.  All  day  the  bells  rang ;  balloons  were 
sent  into  the  air ;  trees  were  covered  with  banners ;  flags  and  stream- 
ers waved  from  the  Astor  House,  City  Hall,  Museums,  Tribune 
Buildings,  and  other  public  places — the  roofs  of  which  were  cov- 


52  THECONTEAST. 

ered  with  spectators.  It  was,  indeed,  a  proud  day  for  the  city  of 
New-York  ;  and  well  may  she  be  named  the  City  of  Fountain*." 

"  Oh,  how  delighted  we  should  have  been  could  we  have  been 
there  !"  exclaimed  the  children. 

"  Let  us  turn  our  attention  for  a  moment,"  said  Mrs.  Milnor, 
"  to  another  topic.  I  have  been  thinking,  while  standing  here 
viewing  this  beautiful  city,  of  the  day  when  Washington,  Eo- 
chambeau,  and  La  Fayette,  passed  through  with  their  troops, 
before  the  surrender  of  Cornwallis.  What  a  brilliant  throng, 
and  what  patriotic  hearts  there  panted,  trembled,  and  died,  for  the 
blessings  we  now  enjoy.  But  for  them,  New- York  would  never 
have  witnessed  such  a  day  as  your  father  has  described." 

"  Mother,  will  you  tell  us  how  the  victory  was  obtained  when 
we  get  home  ?" 

"  Yes,  my  children.  We  must  now  hasten,  and  make  our  pur- 
chases and  our  calls,  for  it  will  soon  be  time  for  us  to  return." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milnor,  with  their  lovely  family,  were  welcome 
customers  in  the  few  stores  they  entered.  They  inquired  for 
nothing  but  what  they  wished,  and  were  decided  in  what  articles 
they  purchased.  The  dress  patterns  for  the  girls  were  quickly 
chosen,  a  few  books  and  worsteds,  and  a  box  of  oranges.  They 
then  called  at  Mr.  Crayton's.  Mrs.  Crayton  was  out :  the  chil- 
dren had  gone  a  walking.  Mr.  Crayton  was  confined  to  the 
house  by  his  cough. 

"I  am  very  glad,  indeed,  to  see  you,"  said  he ;  "  pray  be  seated. 
I  regret  Mrs.  Crayton  is  out,  and  the  children — and  yet  1  am  glad, 
on  my  own  account,  they  are ;  I  have  long  wished  to  see  you. 
Come  here,  Emilie,"  taking  her  upon  his  knee ;  "  how  do  you 
like  your  new  home  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  dear  uncle,  I  am  very  happy  there  ;  I  like  it  much 
better " 

"  Than  here,  my  child,  do  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes,  dear  uncle,"  said  Emilie,  clasping  her  arms  around  his 
neck,  and  kissing  him  ;  "  but  I  do  love  you." 

"  Is  your  cough  better  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Milnor. 

"  No  better,"  he  replied ;  "  I  have  tried  various  remedies,  but 
they  afford  me  no  relief." 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milnor  were  startled  at  his  altered  appearance. 

"  I  have  wished  to  see  you  for  some  time,  my  friend.  I  see 
by  the  papers  the  banks  are  giving  way,  and  the  Cliffords  have 


THE      CONTRAST.  53 

closed  their  business.  They  have  ten  thousand  dollars  of  mine, 
which  I  fear  1  shall  lose.  It  is  in  vain  for  me  to  convince  my 
wife  of  our  situation.  She  either  does  not  wish  to  know,  or  will 
not  believe  me,  when  I  converse  with  her  upon  the  subject  of  re- 
trenchment. Should  my  health  fail,"  and  he  wept,  "  what  will 
become  of  my  children  ?" 

At  that  moment  they  entered  ;  George  first,  with  his  hands  full 
of  toys ;  the  girls  with  each  a  new  basket  made  of  shells. 

"  Look,  father,  see  what  we  have  got !" 

"  But,  my  children,  do  you  not  see  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Milnor,  and 
your  cousin  and  friends  ?" 

Emilie  flew  to  them  and  kissed  them.  They  Avere  delighted  at 
seeing  her. 

"Now,  you  will  stay  with  us — will  you  not?"  inquired  her 


"  Do  you  wish  me  to  ?" 

"  Yes,  indeed,  we  do." 

"  Well,  I  will  one  of  these  days." 

"  Oh,  do  stay  now,"  they  cried. 

"  My  dears,"  said  Mrs.  Milnor,  seeing  Emilie's  distress,  "  your 
cousin  is  now  engaged  in  her  studies ;  we  shall  have  a  vacation 
by  and  by,  when  she  shall  come  and  see  you." 

Then,  calling  them  to  her,  and  brushing  back  their  rich  flowing 
hair,  she  kissed  them,  and  folding  them  to  her  bosom,  a  tear  of 
commiseration  stole  down  her  cheek  at  the  idea  of  their  situation. 
Mr.  Crayton  had  a  very  severe  attack  of  coughing,  and  broke  a 
slight  blood  vessel.  They  were  much  alarmed.  However,  it 
soon  subsided,  and  he  was  better.  He  lay  upon  the  sofa,  sup- 
ported by  pillows;  Mrs.  Milnor  stood  bending  over  him,  with 
her  bonnet  partly  off,  when  his  wife  entered.  Had  she  been 
dressed  for  the  opera,  she  could  not  have  made  a  greater  display. 
She  wore  the  elegant  satin  before  mentioned,  a  collar  of  the  finest 
work  trimmed  with  broad  Mecklin  lace,  a  pink  shirred  hat,  and  a 
blonde  veil  thrown  over  her  shoulders  which  nearly  reached  the 
floor.  Flowers  were  wreathed  in  her  dark  hair — pearls  and  bril- 
liants glistened  on  her  hands  and  arms.  Entering  the  room  with 
her  usual  grace,  she  inquired  the  cause  of  such  deep  interest  as 
was  manifested.  When  explained,  she  replied  that  Mr.  Crayton's 
cough  had  been  better,  and  she  presumed  he  would  soon  recover. 

"  Do  you  feel  better  ?"  she  inquired,  approaching  him. 


54  THE     CONTRAST. 

"  I  do,"  he  replied. 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here  ?"  said  Mrs.  Crayton,  ad- 
dressing Mrs.  Milnor. 

"  Nearly  an  hour." 

"  Dear  me,  I  did  not  think  I  had  been  gone  so  long;  but  time 
flies  so  quickly  in  good  company,  and  I  have  been  so  delighted 
since  I  have  been  gone " 

"  That  you  forgot  your  husband,"  said  Mrs.  Milnor. 

Had  a  viper  stung  her,  she  could  not  have  started  quicker. 
Conscience-struck,  and  surprised  that  any  one  would  have  the 
presumption  to  speak  to  her  in  such  a  manner,  she  blushed  and 
remained  silent. 

"We  must  leave  you,  Mr.  Crayton,"  said  Mrs.  Milnor,  taking 
his  hand  ;  "  I  hope  you  will  soon  be  better." 

The  children  kissed  each  other — seeing  their  father  ill ,  and  wit- 
nessing the  kindness  and  attention  of  their  friends,  they  were 
filled  with  surprise  ;  and  following  them  to  the  door,  begged  they 
would  come  again.  Mr.  Craytoa  took  Mr.  Milnor's  hand. 
"  Come  to-morrow,  will  you  '" 

"  If  nothing  prevents  ;  good  afternoon." 

They  left  Mrs.  Crayton  still  sitting  in  the  elegant  chair  into 
which  she  had  thrown  herself  on  entering,  her  bonnet  in  her 
hand,  her  cap  untied,  her  face  flushed,  and  holding  in  her  hand  a 
bouquet  ot  flowers  which  partly  concealed  the  brilliants  that 
sparkled  upon  her  fingers. 

After  Mr.  Milnor's  family  were  seated  in  the  coach,  they  were 
silent  for  a  few  moments.  Emilie's  tears  fell  fast,  and  her  young 
heart  beat  with  fearful  rapidity. 

"Poor  friend  Crayton,"  exclaimed  Mr.  Milnor;  "yours  is  a 
hard  case."  His  eyes  filled  as  he  looked  at  his  amiable  and  be- 
loved wife.  "You  see,  my  children,  in  Mrs.  Crayton,  the  effect 
of  vanity  and  folly.  We  will  all  allow  she  is  beautiful — very 
beautiful ;  but  heartless  and  cold.  So  strong  is  her  ruling  pas- 
sion, she  can  leave  her  husband  for  display,  for  dress — leave  him 
when  he  needs  her  care,  to  gratify  her  vanity ;  she  is  truly  to  be 
pitied." 

"  Had  mother  found  you  so  ill,  how  frightened  she  would  have 
been,"  said  Alice  ;  "  but  Mrs.  Crayton  was  not." 

"  It  is  not  fashionable,  my  dear,  to  weep  and  to  make  a  fuss, 
as  it  is  called,  when  our  friends  are  sick,  or  die ;  we  must  be 


THE     CONTRAST.  55 

philosophers — we  cannot  alter  anything,  and  it  is  not  genteel  to 
mourn." 

"  Who  says  so,  my  dear  mother  ?" 

"  The  fashionable  and  the  gay,  my  daughter." 

"  Not  you,  my  mother." 

"  No,  my  children,"  replied  their  father,  "not  your  mother 
She  is  quite  the  reverse,  and  I  wish  you  all  to  be  like  her." 

"  I  hope  I  shall  be  just  like  her,"  said  Emilie. 

" I  hope  you  will"  said  Charles ;  "  and  then  I  shall  love  you 
still  better." 

He  spoke  with  animation  and  feeling.  Emilie,  young  as  she 
was,  blushed ;  and  Charles  understood  by  his  own  emotions  the 
secret  spring  from  which  the  roseate  hue  emanated. 

"  Then  you  would  rather  have  your  mother  appear  in  her  plain 
dress,  and  manage  in  her  own  way,  than  be  like  Mrs.  Crayton  ?" 

"  I  do  not  like  Mrs.  Crayton  at  all — she  does  not  please  me," 
said  Charles. 

"  But  you  allow  she  is  handsome." 

"  I  do  not  see  her  beauty — to  me  it  is  hid  under  the  dark  shade  of 
unkindness.  If  we  had  found  her  with  her  husband,  administer- 
ing to  his  wants,  and  cheering  his  solitude  by  her  efforts  to  please, 
even  in  a  cottage,  in  the  humblest  garb,  she  would  have  appeared 
more  lovely." 

"  Well,  my  children,  I  hope  we  shall  all  profit  by  this  day's 
scene." 

"  See  the  sun,  dear  father!  it  is  not  so  brilliant  as  you  antici- 
pated." 

"  'Tia  true,"  he  replied ;  "  human  life  is  drawn  in  glowing  colors 
upon  the  heavens.  The  sky  was  bright  when  we  left — bright  and 
beautiful — and  indicated  a  rich,  an  Italian  sunset;  but  see,  it  is 
obscured,  and  a  dark  cloud  awaits  the  sun's  disk;  the  mountains 
are  dark :  can  you  not  draw  a  moral  from  it  ?" 

The  children  looked  at  their  mother — who  sat  absorbed  in 
thought,  and  had  scarcely  spoken  since  she  entered  the  coach.  The 
scene  she  had  witnessed  oppressed  her — her  heart  was  touched ; 
and  she  pitied  the  heartless  beauty  she  had  beheld,  and  still  more 
the  dying  husband,  for  as  such  she  looked  upon  him.  The  chil- 
dren had  touched  her  soul ;  she  saw  and  felt  what  they  needed, 
to  be  useful  and  respected  in  the  world,  and  imagined  what  might 
be  their  circumstances  should  their  father  die. 


56  THS     CONTRAST. 

"  Come,  dear  mother,  the  moral." 

"Have  you  not,"  she  replied,  "seen  those  whose  prospects 
were  bright  as  the  blue  heavens  when  we  left  our  home.  No 
cloud  dimmed  their  horizon,  and  all  was  serene  and  lovely.  Have 
you  not  witnessed  the  gathering  cloud  setting  around  the  strong 
and  the  healthy  as  they  shrank  away  beneath  the  chill  blast  of 
adversity,  while  their  nearest  and  dearest,  best  beloved  ones,  de- 
serted them  ?  Have  you  not  seen  blasted  hopes,  losses,  trials,  dis- 
appointment and  gloom,  settle  upon  each  treasured  object,  until 
the  horizon,  but  yesterday  so  brilliant,  became  obscured,  and  the 
soul  setting  like  the  sun  in  darkness .'" 

Mr.  Milnor  looked  at  his  children ;  his  heart  was  full  as  he 
gazed  upon  the  being  dearest  to  his  soul,  and  beheld  her  counte- 
nance light  up  with  the  pure  principles  fixed  in  her  bosom,  as 
invariable  as  true. 

"  Do  you  understand  the  moral,  my  children  ?" 

They  looked  one  upon  another. 

"  Speak,"  said  their  father. 

"Oh,  yes,  papa,  we  all  understand  it;  it  is  Mr.  Crayton's 
family.  Do  you  think  he  will  die,  dear  mother  ?" 

"  I  fear  he  will.  Let  us  remember  him  and  his  dear  children 
in  our  prayers — also  his  dear  wife." 

Emilie  laid  her  head  on  Mrs.  Milnor's  hand  as  she  spoke,  and 
kissed  it  in  the  fervency  of  her  soul.  All  was  silent  until  they 
reached  home.  Early  the  next  morning,  Mr.  Milnor  received  a 
note  requesting  his  immediate  attendance  on  Mr.  Crayton,  who  was 
very  ill — having  had  an  attack  of  hemorrhage  during  the  night,  and 
was  thought  to  be  dying.  His  wife,  conscience-smitten  by  Mrs. 
Milnor's  remark,  for  the  first  time  condemned  herself.  She  looked 
at  the  happy  family  of  Milnors  as  they  left ;  she  looked  at  her  own 
blooming  children,  so  entirely  neglected  both  in  mind  and  morals  ; 
she  looked  upon  the  altered  countenance  of  her  husband,  and  she 
recollected  his  conversation  with  her  respecting  his  property — all 
rushed  upon  her  recollection,  and  for  some  time  she  remained  mo- 
tionless. She  felt  her  heart  softened  by  reflection,  and  repented  of 
her  unkindness  to  her  husband.  The  children  entered,  crying 
because  Emilie  had  left  them.  Mr.  Crayton  called  them  to  him 
and  embraced  them,  while  tears  coursed  rapidly  down  his  cheeks. 
Mrs.  Crayton  was  touched  ;  she  threw  down  her  bonnet,  and  ap- 
proaching him,  said,  in  a  subdued  tone,  "  I  did  not  think  you  was 


THECONTRA8T.  57 

so  unwell.  I  am  sorry  I  left  you,"  and,  sinking  upon  the  sofa 
beside  her  husband,  burst  into  tears.  Her  sympathy  was,  indeed, 
welcome  to  both  father  and  children ;  and  they  spent  a  more  plea- 
sant evening  than  they  had  in  a  long  time.  Mr.  Crayton  rested 
well  the  first  part  of  the  night,  but  toward  morning  he  was  ex- 
tremely restless.  About  sunrise  he  coughed  much,  which  pro- 
duced another  hemorrhage.  A  physician  was  called.  Mrs.  Crayton 
went  into  strong  hysterics,  and  the  children  cried  aloud.  Mr. 
Crayton  desired  Mr.  Milnor  to  be  sent  for.  When  he  arrived  he 
was  no  better. 

"I  want  to  see  you,  my  friend,"  said  he.  "  I  feel  I  am  going. 
It  is  my  wish  that  you  attend  to  my  business  when  I  am  gone ; 
save  what  you  can,  and  take  care  of  my  wife  and  children." 

Mr.  Milnor  begged  him  to  be  composed,  and  hoped  he  might  re- 
vive— although  he  feared  that  the  hand  of  death  was  fast  fixing  its 
seal  upon  his  sunken  features.  He  pointed  his  views  to  a  brighter 
and  a  happier  world,  and  found,  by  Mr.  Crayton's  reply,  that 
he  had  reflected  upon  their  former  conversation  respecting  a  fu- 
ture stale. 

"  I  wish  my  children  to  be  religiously  educated ;  will  you  pro- 
mise to  be  their  guardian  ?" 

"  I  will,"  replied  Mr.  Milnor. 

He  then  administered  some  medicine,  and  begged  him  to  seek 
repose.  He  lay  very  still  for  a  few  moments,  when,  opening  his 
eyes,  he  asked  for  his  wife  and  children.  They  came — horror- 
stricken,  Mrs.  Crayton  fainted — the  children,  seeing  their  father's 
altered  looks,  and  their  mother's  fainting  form,  cried  aloud.  He 
extended  his  hand ;  they  clung  to  it  and  kissed  it.  He  was  deeply 
affected  as  he  clasped  one  after  the  other  to  his  aching  heart,  and, 
exhausted  by  the  effort,  he  sank  upon  his  pillow. 

"  Oh,  my  father — my  dear  father  !"  they  cried  ;  "  do  not  die ; 
do  not  leave  us  !" 

"  Love  God,"  said  their  dying  father ;  and,  casting  a  look  of 
thrilling  interest  upon  them,  expired. 

All  was  confusion.  Mr.  Milnor  dispatched  a  messenger  for 
his  wife,  who,  in  a  short  time,  arrived  there.  He  led  her  immedi- 
ately to  Mrs.  Crayton,  who  lay  in  violent  hysterics.  She  did  not 
notice  her  children,  although  their  fears  that  she  would  die  made 
them  nearly  frantic.  Mrs.  Milnor  removed  them  gently  from  the 
room,  and  sat  down  by  their  wretched  mother.  She  untied  1  er 


58  THE     CONTRAST. 

cap,  bathed  her  beautiful  forehead,  and  parted  her  long  dark  hair, 
which  hung  in  profusion  over  her  face — hair  that  she  had  dressed 
and  adorned  to  please  her  vanity,  and  influence  her  husband  to 
submit  to  her  requests  by  her  unrivalled  beauty — bathed  her 
clenched  hands,  sparkling  with  diamonds,  and  removed  them  one 
by  one  as  they  relaxed.  By  judicious  management  she  succeeded 
in  restoring  her.  She  inquired  for  her  husband.  Knowing  by  her 
friend's  looks  that  he  was  dead,  again  she  would  have  fainted, 
but  the  administering  of  prompt  remedies  relieved  her.  She  sat 
by  her  until  she  fell  into  a  gentle  slumber,  and  leaving  her  with 
a  domestic,  she  sought  the  children.  They  flew  to  her  as  she 
opened  the  door  of  their  apartment ;  taking  them  in  her  arms,  and 
folding  them  affectionately  to  her  bosom,  she  wept  tears  over  them 
of  kindness  and  love.  They  were  like  frightened  lambs ;  their 
eyes  were  red  with  weeping,  and  their  little  hands  burnt  as 
with  a  fever.  Overcome  by  her  feelings,  she  drew  them  still 
closer  in  her  embrace,  and,  falling  upon  her  knees,  she  raised  the 
voice  of  supplication  and  prayer  for  them.  So  sweetly  did  she 
plead,  so  fervently  did  she  pray  that  God  would  be  their  father, 
and  so  unreservedly  did  she  commit  them  to  the  care  of  the  gen- 
tle shepherd — so  touching  was  her  language,  so  new,  so  novel 
was  the  scene,  they  felt  as  if  they  indeed  had  a  father  somewhere, 
although  they  knew  him  not,  who  would  take  care  of  them. 

Emilie  and  Mrs.  Milnor  were  admitted  to  the  chamber  where 
the  remains  of  Mr.  Crayton  lay  enshrouded.  Emilie  wept  bit- 
terly. Mrs.  Milnor  soothed  her,  by  saying  she  should  remain 
with  them  ;  and  Charles,  taking  her  hand,  wiped  away  her  falling 
tears.  The  little  Craytons  ran  to  meet  their  cousin  and  the  chil- 
dren, and  wept  together.  Silence  was  at  last  restored  where 
mirth  and  hilarity  had  so  long  held  their  sway — where  discontent 
and  vanity  had  been  a  worm  that  had  gnawed  at  the  root  of  every 
enjoyment,  and  nipped  every  flower  in  the  bud.  The  breath  of 
passion  and  folly  had  blighted  every  unfolding  petal,  and  its  per- 
fume died  away  ere  it  was  inhaled.  The  parlor  was  closed — the 
piano's  notes  were  hushed.  The  servants  stepped  lightly;  the 
hall  echoed  to  every  tread,  as  awe-struck  they  wandered  through 
the  lonely  rooms,  once  the  resort  of  the  fashionable  and  the  gay — 
where  wine  and  music  flowed,  and  where  many  a  sharp  contest 
was  held.  Mr.  Milnor  attended  to  the  funeral  obsequies ;  all  was 
over,  and  the  body  of  his  friend  left  to  mingle  with  its  kindred  dust. 


THE     CONTRAST.  59 

Mrs.  Cray  ton  continued  in  an  excited  state  until  a  fever  fixed 
upon  her  nervous  system,  and  she  was  ill  indeed.  Mrs.  Milnor 
watched  over  her  continually,  and  she  awoke  to  consciousness  only 
to  relapse  again  into  a  state  of  deeper  despair.  She  talked  ot  her 
husband,  of  the  Milnors,  the  mantilla — said  she  had  never  worn 
it,  that  it  was  spoiled,  and  she  would  never  look  upon  it  again. 

Her  physician  was  of  the  same  mind  with  Mrs.  Milnor;  both 
thought  she  would  not  recover.  A  continued  round  of  excitement, 
close  rooms,  late  hours,  and  excesses,  had  injured  her  health,  and 
brought  on  a  nervous  attack,  which  they  feared  would  prove  fatal. 
At  one  time  she  would  call  for  the  carriage,  then  for  the  children, 
and  always  for  the  mantilla;  then  declare  she  would  not  wear  it. 
The  third  week  she  was  more  rational.  Mrs.  Milnor  remained 
with  her,  and,  like  an  angel  of  mercy,  watched  around  her  bed. 

"  T  know  all,"  said  Mrs.  Crayton,  gazing  upon  her  one  day  as 
she  awoke  ;  "  I  know  all !  Where  are  my  children  ?" 

"  At  my  house." 

"  How  very  kind  you  are,*'  she  replied,  and  a  tear  trickled 
down  her  face. 

Mrs.  Milnor  bending  over  her,  kissed  it  away,  and  quieted  her 
by  saying  they  were  well.  She  expressed  her  thanks  for  her 
friend's  kindness  and  attention  ;  and  through  the  night  conversed 
considerably,  acknowledging  her  faults,  and  lamenting  over  them. 

Mrs.  Milnor,  by  degrees,  led  her  mind  to  the  subject  of  religion ; 
she  read  the  Bible,  which  was  once,  to  her,  a  sealed  book,  and 
its  truths  fell  like  idle  tales  upon  her  ear.  But  she  could  not 
resist  the  melting  importunities  of  Mrs.  Milnor  for  her  salvation, 
and  wept  under  their  soul-subduing  influence.  Daily  she  mourned 
her  ingratitude,  and  said  she  had  never  enjoyed  an  hour's  peace 
since  she  purchased  the  mantilla,  for  Mr.  Crayton's  conduct 
was  ever  marked  and  cold  after  it :  she  saw  her  error,  but  could 
not  remedy  it.  The  more  cold  he  became,  the  more  she  would  have 
her  own  way.  When  she  saw  how  correctly  everything  was 
managed  in  Mrs.  Milnor's  family,  she  was  filled  with  envy.  The 
more  Mr.  Crayton  praised,  the  more  she  condemned  them,  until  her 
own  children  reproved  her.  And  now  she  saw  her  folly  when 
too  late  to  atone  for  it.  Her  children  were  permitted  to  see  her 
occasionally;  she  besought  them  to  listen  to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Mil- 
nor's advice ;  and  calling  Agnes,  her  eldest  daughter,  told  her  to 
keep  the  mantilla,  the  cause  of  all  her  sorrow,  and  never  part  with 


60  THE     CONTRAST. 

it ;  and,  whenever  in  after  life  she  was  disposed  io  act  contrary  to 
the  wishes  of  a  superior,  to  look  at  the  mantilla,  and  think  of  her 
mother.  A  rapid  decline  soon  laid  the  unfortunate  woman,  the 
victim  of  folly  and  extravagance,  hy  the  side  of  her  husband.  Mr. 
Crayton's  estate,  after  his  affairs  were  settled,  was  sufficient  to 
make  his  children  independent. 

Charles  and  George  entered  the  University  in  New- York.  The 
Miss  Craytons  are  placed  under  the  care  ai\d  instruction  of  Mrs. 
Milnor  with  Emilie  and  her  own  daughters,  for  she  has  no  disposi- 
tion to  resign  them  or  her  own  to  other  hands.  Under  her  fostering 
care  they  grow  in  every  virtue,  and  they  love  her  as  their  own 
mother. 


THE   DISAPPOINTMENT. 


A  TRUE    STORY. 


E.  1'H.  WAS  the  youngest  child  of  a  large  family,  and  the 
"pet  lamb"  of  the  flock.  His  brothers  and  sisters  were  well 
settled  in  life,  and  happy  in  their  connections.  His  parents  were 
of  the  old  Puritan  origin,  who  were  driven  to  this  country  during 
the  persecutions  of  the  Huguenots  in  France  in  the  reign  of  Louis 
XIV.  They  settled  first  in  Rochelle,  to  which  place  they  gave 
the  name.  His  father,  S.  1'H.,  was  converted  under  the  preach- 
ing of  the  immortal  Whitfield,  at  the  time  when  he  passed  through 
our  land  like  a  brilliant  meteor,  whose  dazzling  light  was  remem- 
bered long  after  the  bright  vision  had  fled. 

They  were  great  readers  of  history ;  their  library  consisted  of  a 
selection  of  books  from  the  best  English  and  American  authors. 
The  first  book  their  children  remember,  next  to  the  Bible,  is 
Josephus,  a  large,  unwieldy  volume,  filled  with  pictures  of  the 
Jews  and  Romans,  which  they  were  permitted  to  look  at  when- 
ever they  pleased,  with  the  express  command  not  to  injure  it. 
Scarcely  was  there  a  step  taken  by  the  Jews,  from  the  days  of 
Abraham,  until  the  first  society  was  formed  for  the  melioration  of 
that  devoted  sect,  with  which  their  parents  were  not  more  or  less 
acquainted.  His  mother,  among  various  other  reading,  from  the 
time  she  was  eleven  years  of  age  until  her  sixty-ninth  year,  when 
she  died,  read  the  Bible  every  year  once,  twice,  and  very  often 
three  times.  The  village,  where  they  resided,  was  one  hundred 
miles  from  the  emporium  of  our  land.  The  population  was 
small,  and  although  very  near  a  town  of  the  first  settlement  in 
our  country,  was  young  in  its  institutions. 

Mr.  1'H.,  the  father  ol  E.,  was  a  man  of  eminent  piety,  sound 
and  vigorous  mind,  of  much  influence,  wealthy  and  respected. 
For  some  time  after  the  close  of  the  American  revolution  there 

T 


62  ±H«     DISAPPOIMTMfi  Jtf< 

was  no  church  in  the  place  where  he  resided.  Mr.  1'H.  on  the 
Sabbath  met  with  the  few,  but  devoted  Christians,  dwelling  in  the 
village ;  after  organizing  a  church,  he  himself,  ior  a  long  time, 
led  their  worship,  when  the  people  were  called  together  by  the 
beating  of  a  drum.*  The  abode  of  Mr.  1'H.  was,  for  many  years, 
the  resort  of  gospel  ministers,  among  whom  none  met  with  a 
more  cordial  reception  than  the  Rev.  Dr.  Richards,  of  Newburgh. 
A  clergyman  was  soon  settled  among  them,  and,  in  a  few  years, 
they  were  a  fast  growing  people.  Commerce  and  agriculture 
increased  with  institutions  for  learning.  The  eldest  son  of  Mr. 
1'H.  was,  for  many  years,  a  merchant  in  London,  after  which  he 
returned  to  America,  and  established  himself  in  New- York,  where 
he  became  a  police  officer.  Another  son  removed  to  the  then  far 
West. 

Dispersed  thus,  in  the  providence  of  God,  the  young  E.  became 
the  idol  of  their  hearts.  He  was  kept  constantly  at  school,  under 
excellent  teachers,  in  an  adjoining  town.  At  the  early  age  of 
fourteen,  he  delivered  an  oration  before  the  debating  society,  which 
gained  him  great  applause. 

He  continued  his  academical  studies  in  a  classic  school,  where 
he  made  rapid  advances,  until  he  went  to  New  Haven,  then  under 
the  superintendence  of  the  Rev.  Timothy  D wight,  D.  D.,  and  grad- 
uated with  much  honor  at  nineteen  years  of  age.  He  delivered 
an  oration  in  his  native  village  during  the  war  of  1814,  wherein 
he  displayed  his  oratorical  powers  much  to  the  satisfaction  of  his 
friends.  His  vacations  were  spent  at  home,  in  the  bosom  of  his 
father's  family,  and  were  often  afterwards  looked  upon  as  green 
spots  in  their  existence. 

Never  was  a  youth  more  idolized  than  E.,  and  how  could  it 
have  been  otherwise.  He  was  all  the  fondest  wish  could  desire. 
His  heart  overflowed  with  the  very  milk  of  human  kindness; 
his  address  was  easy  ;  his  manners  winning  and  endearing  ;  his 
whole  soul  was  devoted  to  his  parents,  brothers  and  sisters,  and 
one  other,  whom  he  dearly  loved — a  young  lady  of  intelligence 
and  virtue,  possessed  of  every  pleasing  attraction.  Many  and 
long  were  the  petitions  offered  for  him  by  his  parents.  Oh,  hovr 
has  that  tender  father  plead  for  his  child  ;  many  are  the  petitions 

*  The  same  village  has  now  three  churches,  a  population  of  nearly 
three  thousand,  and  a  fleet  of  whaling  ships,  amounting  to  between 
forty  and  fifty. 


THE     DISAPPOINTMENT.  63 

registered  in  heaven,  that  ascended  for  his  salvation ;  and  how 
delighted  was  that  father  when  his  son  returned  from  New  Haven, 
as  he  placed  his  diploma  in  his  hands,  and  thanked  him  for  all  he 
had  done  for  him  !  After  spending  a  few  weeks  at  home,  he  left 
for  New  York,  where  he  studied  with  the  Hon.  N.  Sandford  until 
admitted  to  the  bar.  With  much  delight  his  friends  saw  him 
rising  to  eminence,  pleasantly  situated  in  his  office,  with  his 
hooks,  etc.,  around  him.  Young,  healthful,  ambitious,  talented 
and  respected — his  prospects  were  bright,  his  sky  clear,  the  world 
smiled,  and  he  was  happy. 

Alas,  for  human  expectations  !  the  morning  came — the  long- 
desired  and  looked  for  day,  when  the  full  cup  of  happiness  was 
to  be  drunk.  Yes,  the  morning  dawned  ;  the  nuptial  feast  was 
prepared,  all  things  were  ready,  and  the  lovely  Mary,  looking 
from  the  window,  discovered  a  sail  in  the  distance.  "  He  is 
coming  ? "  she  exclaimed,  and  dressed  her  hair  with  maiden  pride 
to  receive  him. 

"  There  is  a  sail  in  sight,"  said  one  te  the  doting  parents. 

The  aged  father,  delighted,  walked  the  room  ;  the  mother 
wiped  the  full  tear  of  joy  from  her  eye ;  and  the  sisters,  with  smiles, 
prepared  the  festive  board,  and  impatiently  waited  the  coming  of 
their  beloved  brother.  The  door  opened,  and  a  person  entered. 

"  Has  he  come  ? "  eagerly  inquired  his  father. 

The  messenger  remained  silent. 

"  Has  he  come  ? "  again  inquired  the  old  gentleman. 

"No!" 

"  Is  he  coming  ? " 

"No!" 

Rising  suddenly  from  his  chair,  and  looking  earnestly  in  the 
speaker's  face,  he  tremblingly  inquired  : 

"  What  is  the  cause  of  your  silence  ? " 

He  returned  no  answer. 

"  Is  my  child  dead  ? "  said  the  old  man. 

"  Yes,"  replied  the  messenger,  "  he  is ! " 

Great  God  !  what  a  scene  ensued.  Covering  his  face  with  his 
hands,  his  father  bowed  his  hoary  head,  and,  like  David  of  old, 
exclaimed :  "  My  son,  my  son,  would  to  God  I  had  died  for  thee !" 
His  mother,  pale  as  the  mountain  lily,  remained  immovable ; 
tears  coursed  each  other  down  her  cheeks ;  her  hands  were 
clasped  around  her  weeping  daughters,  as  they  knelt  before  her. 


64  THE     DISAPPOINTMENT. 

"  Oh,  my  son  !  "  "  Oh,  my  brother — my  dear  brother  ! "  they 
cried.  Sighs,  groans,  prayers,  despair  and  agony,  mingled  in 
their  aspirations.  One  beloved  sister  had  been  with  her  hus- 
band to  a  neighboring  town,  where  he  had  been  preaching  on 
a  thanksgiving  day.  On  their  return  home,  a  cloud,  dark  and 
impervious,  was  seen  rising  with  fearful  rapidity  from  the  north. 
She  watched  it  with  much  trembling,  as  it  indicated  a  heavy  rush 
of  wind.  Expecting  her  brother,  it  alarmed  her,  and  wrapping 
herself  in  her  cloak,  she  silently  watched  the  scowling  heavens 
until  she  reached  her  father's  dwelling.  Seeing  the  front  door 
open,  she  said  quickly  to  her  husband  :  "  He  is  come  !  "  As  she 
entered,  a  gentleman's  cloak  was  hanging  across  the  bannister 
"  He  is  here  ! "  she  cried  ;  and  ran  quickly  through  the  hall,  and 
opened  the  door  leading  into  the  parl  Dr.  But,  oh  God  !  what  a 
scene  met  her  eye ! 

Letters  lay  scattered  upon  the  table  ;  a  profound  silence  reigned, 
although  the  room  was  filled  with  people.  Instantly  she  guessed 
the  cause,  and  flinging  herself  upon  her  knees  before  her  aged 
father,  she  faintly  inquired  : 

"  Is  my  brother  dead  ? " 

The  old  gentleman  laying  his  trembling  hand  upon  her  head, 
said: 

"  Yes,  my  daughter,  he  is  gone — winged  his  way  to  a  brighter 
world — gone  from  us  for  ever — gone  from  his  poor  old  father." 

Again  their  sorrows  burst  forth,  when  the  door  opened,  and  a 
brother  of  the  deceased  entered,  leading  in  the  young  lady  to 
whom  E.  was  betrothed,  almost  in  a  state  of  distraction.  She, 
who  in  the  morning  was  the  affianced  bride — the  happy  antici- 
pator of  promised  bliss — who  dressed  the  hymeneal  bower  with 
taste  and  beauty ;  who  counted  the  lingering  moments  as  they 
fled  ;  who  watched  each  rippling  wave,  until  the  bark  that  was  to 
bring  to  her  embraces  a  lover,  arrived ;  bearing  not  E. — not  the 
young,  the  lovely,  the  ardent  admirer — but  the  heart-rending 
intelligence  of  his  death  !  Can  fancy  paint  more  finished  wretch- 
edness ?  What  a  scene  ! 

Amid  this  tempest  of  grief,  the  aged  father's  voice  arose  in 
prayer.  His  soul  still  relied  upon  his  God,  although  smitten  with 
the  rod  of  his  power.  And,  while  his  heart  was  bleeding  at  every 
pore,  by  faith  he  drew  near  to  Him,  who  controls  not  only  the 
elements  of  nature,  but  the  conflicting,  overwhelming  passions  of 


THE     DISAPPOINTMENT.  65 

the  soul.  What  a  lesson !  How  uncertain  and  fleeting  are  all 
earthly  joys  !  how  frail  the  tenure  by  which  we  hold  alTcreated 
things !  how  liable  to  disappointment  is  man !  how  quickly 
are  his  best  plans  frustrated,  his  fairest  prospects  blighted,  and 
his  fondest  hopes  destroyed  !  Alas!  for  E. ;  when  his  heart  beat 
high  with  promised  happiness — when  all  was  bright,  and  the  cup 
of  enjoyment  had  well  nigh  reached  his  lips — death,  -sudden  and 
unexpected,  came,  and  in  three  days  laid  the  young  and  the  lovely 
low.  When  the  arms  of  beauty  were  opened  to  receive  him,  the, 
cruel  spoiler  claimed  him  as  his  own,  and  clasped  him  for  ever 
within  his  cold  embrace. 

Like  evening's  sweetest  star, 

The  earliest  in  the  train  ; 
While  pleasure  woo'd  him  from  afar — 

He  sank  beneath  the  main. 

Just  as  he  raised  his  head, 

To  quaff  the  honied  bowl, 
The  charm  dissolv'd — the  vision  fled, 

And  night  involved  his  soul. 

Far  from  the  friends  he  lov'd, 

He  gently  closed  his  eyes  ; 
Passed  like  a  meteor  from  the^sight, 

And  sought  his  native  skies. 

His  beloved  mother  yielded  to  the  blow,  and  faded  away  like 
the  flower  of  the  field,  when  visited  too  rudely  by  the  winds  of 
heaven.  Patient,  resigned,  and  calm,  she  sat  am.'d  her  surviving 
children  a  treasured  one  indeed.  But  all  their  fond  desires,  nor 
all  their  tender  care,  could  keep  her  with  them.  The  husband  of 
her  youth  bent  in  anguish  over  her  dying  bed — like  the  oak  that 
withstood  the  tempest's  rage,  with  its  branches  spread  around  the 
objects  of  his  love,  forming  a  shade  from  the  heated  furnace. 
Her  children  clustered  around,  and  knelt  beside  her,  when  dressed 
for  the  grave;  knelt  beside  the  mother  who  bore  them — who 
shared  their  every  sorrow,  and  their  every  joy  ;  knelt  by  her,  as 
she  lay  sweetly  released  from  every  earthly  ill — her  countenance 
calm,  composed  and  happy  ;  her  hands,  which  were  ever  ready  to 
administer  to  their  wants,  gently  laid  upon  that  bosom  which  had 
been  a  receptacle  of  every  kindness  which  had  so  often  beat 


66  THE     DISAPPOINTMENT. 

with  convulsive  sorrow — that  dear  bosom,  to  which  in  their 
infancy  they  had  clung — was  still  and  motionless.  Ye,  who 
have  bent  over  a  beloved  mother,  and  felt  as  if  every  tie  on  earth 
was  riven — ye  can  only  know  their  feelings.  Tken,in  a  good  old 
age,  with  a  hope  full  of  immortality,  the  aged  father  smiled,  as 
the  messenger  of  Death  approached^  and  with  a  brighter,  and  a 
happier  world  in  view,  bade  him  welcome. 

"  Sure  the  last  end  of  the  good  man  is  peace* 
Night  dews  fall  not  more  gently  on  the  earth, 
Nor  weary,  worn-out  winds  expire  more  soft." 

How  many  precious  souls  have  met  above — how  many  beloved 
ones  are  garnered  there.  Delightful  hour,  when  the  cherished  of 
earth  shall  meet  in  a  "  better  land,"  where  separations,  and 
adieus,  can  never  come,  and  disappointments  never  have  admis- 
sion. 


THE    RETURN 


ON  a  cold  December  evening,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heartly,  seated  by 
their  cheerful  fire,  surrounded  by  their  children,  seemed  lost  in 
deep  reflection,  as  the  winter  winds  howled  around  their  dwelling. 
"  Father,"  said  little  Gilbert,  "when  will  brother  Henry  return  ?" 
His  father,  with  a  deep-drawn  sigh,  fastened  his  eyes  upon  his 
little  boy,  and  attempted  to  speak,  but  the  effort  was  ineffectual; 
and,  placing  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  he  remained  silent.  The 
child,  as  if  divining  the  cause  of  the  father's  musings,  again  in- 
quired, "  When  will  my  brother  Henry  come,  for  I  want  him  to 
make  me  some  more  tops,  and  balls,  and  help  me  to  fly  my  kite  as 
he  used  to  do  when  he  was  at  home."  His  father  arose  from  his 
chair,  and  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  countenance  of  his  amiable  com- 
panion, which  was  pale,  and  her  eyes  suffused  with  tears.  He 
read  in  her  bosom  feelings  corresponding  with  his  own — for  they 
had  both  been  thinking  of  their  eldest,  best  beloved  son,  away 
from  his  home,  and  under  what  circumstances  they  knew  not. 

Henry  Heartly  was  the  eldest  son  of  the  Rev.  James  and  Mary 

Heartly,  occupants  of  the  parsonage  of  C ,  a  delightful  village 

in  one  of  the  New  England  States.  It  was  a  lovely  spot,  seem- 
ingly designed  by  nature  for  a  contemplative  mind.  Their  dwell- 
ing, embowered  by  large  elms,  shewed  its  white  front  through  the 
vines,  which  curled  around  the  piazza  and  bow  windows ;  and 
was  situated  upon  a  beautiful  sloping  lawn,  adoriied  with  beds 
neatly  arranged,  and  bordered  with  green  myrtle  and  box,  forming 
a  name  of  each  loved  inhabitant.  Trees  of  various  descriptions 
decorated  this  earthly  paradise,  and  flowers  of  the  choicest  kind 
emitted  their  sweet  perfume,  and  displayed  their  beauteous  hues 
to  the  eye  of  the  passing  stranger.  It  was  here  that  Henry  Heartly 
first  drew  his  infant  breath,  and  was  first  taught  to  lisp  the 
endearing  names  of  father  and  mother.  He  was  a  young  man  of 
ardent  piety,  promising  talents,  beautiful  exterior,  manners  soft 


68  THE      RETURN. 

and  dignified,  a  heart  tremblingly  alive  to  every  sense  of  honor, 
and  ardently  attached  to  his  parents,  brothers  and  sisters.  He  was 
ever  the  idol  of  the  family — one,  whom  every  member  had  ex- 
erted themselves  to  assist  in  educating.  He  had  been  graduated  at 
Yale  College,  at  the  early  age  of  eighteen.  His  vacations  were  a 
sweet  repast ;  and  it  was  during  these  seasons  of  enjoyment,  he  as- 
sisted his  little  brother  Gilbert  in  spinning  his  top  and  flying  his 
kite,  and  entered  into  all  his  little  sports  with  the  feelings  of 
boyhoo"d. 

He  assisted  his  sister  Mary  in  drawing  and  painting,  and  se- 
lected such  books  as  he  wished  her  to  read.  In  the  garden  was  a 
beautiful  arbor,  where,  for  hours,  he  would  read  to  her,  and  watch 
with  delight  the  bright  beams  of  her  intelligent  countenance,  ani- 
mated by  the  inward  impulse  of  her  sensitive  mind  as  it  responded 
to  the  touching  descriptions.  His  father,  whose  salary  amounted 
to  one  thousand  a  year,  by  the  prudence  and  economy  of  an  ex- 
cellent wife,  managed  to  live  genteely,  and  within  their  means. 
Mrs.  H.  was  a  woman  of  highly  cultivated  mind,  and  eminently 
pious.  She  loved  her  husband  with  an  intensity  of  soul  which  is 
known  by  few,  and  her  children  seemed  identified  with  her  very 
existence.  Henry  was  her  eldest  child,  upon  whose  infant  charms 
she  had  gazed  with  all  a  mother's  love ;  and,  as  he  lay  upon  her 
bosom,  with  laughing  eyes  and  dimpled  mouth,  her  tears  and 
prayers  would  mingle  with  her  smiles  and  caresses ;  and  her  heart 
was  so  full  of  rapture,  that  its  clay  tenement  seemed  too  small  to 
contain  its  prisoner.  For  this  son  she  had  exerted  every  faculty 
of  mind  and  body.  In  the  nursery,  she  had  poured  into  his  open- 
ing intellect  lessons  of  wisdom  and  piety.  With  his  little  hands 
clasped  together,  as  he  knelt  at  her  maternal  feet,  often  and 
often  would  he  repeat  "  Our  Father"  in  accents  sweet  as  the  rapt 
seraph's  song.  Mr.  H.  was  also  much  attached  to  Henry,  and  looked 
upon  him  with  glowing  pride  as  he  arose  to  manhood.  His  heart 
beat  but  for  his  welfare,  so  anxious  did  he  feel  for  his  temporal 
and  spiritual  interest.  He  exerted  every  effort,  and  denied  himself 
and  family  many  necessaries,  that  he  might  meet  his  expenses. 
Many  a  homely  meal  was  sweetened  by  the  mentioning  of  his 
name,  and  smiles  and  prayers  were  to  them  a  richer  desert  than 
all  the  choice  viands  of  the  great.  Each  one  arose  stimulated  to 
greater  efforts  for  one  so  beloved.  His  sister,  contented  with  her 
plain  white  dress — without  ornaments,  for  she  needed  none — and 


THK     RETT7RN.  DV 

her  close  cottage  hat,  with  a  wreath  of  green  and  white  flowers 
made  by  her  own  fair  hands,  exerted  every  power  for  him  she 
loved.  The  piece  of  embroidery  she  worked,  the  baskets  she 
made,  the  flowers  she  formed  of  wax — so  beautifully  constructed, 
so  exquisitely  blended  in  their  different  shades,  that,  ere  one  was 
aware,  they  would  eagerly  strive  to  inhale  their  perfume — were 
all  quickly  disposed  of  by  the  discreet  and  devoted  mother,  and 
the  avails  carefully  expended  to  procure  such  articles  as  were 
necessary  for  her  son's  advancement.  Nor  was  he  insensible  to 
it.  In  a  thousand  ways  did  he  return  this  love.  Books,  atlases, 
and  prints,  would  he  send  to  his  brothers  and  sisters.  Thus  this 
happy  family  glided  on  in  peace. 

In  the  city  of  New-York,  he  rose  rapidly  to  eminence  and  res- 
pectableness,  and  faithfully  did  he  return  every  testimony  of  their 
affection.  Mary,  his  idolized  sister,  was  fully  compensated  for 
all  she  had  done,  as  on  her  guitar  she  played  and  sung  the  fol- 
lowing piece,  which  Henry  composed  for  her  one  day  as  he  placed 
in  her  hand  a  beautiful  rose  which  he  brought  her : 

TO   MARY  . 

OH,  let  me  place  this  rose  divine 

Beside  thy  forehead  fair, 
Its  blushing  beauties,  let  them  twine 

Among  thy  raven  hair. 

The  tear  which  falls  from  thy  dark  eye 

Shall  but  renew  its  bloom, 
And,  fanned  by  memory's  gentle  sigh, 

Yield  thee  a  sweet  perfume. 

Remember,  that  a  brother's  love 

Till  death  for  ever  flows — 
Pure  as  the  drops  that  from  above 

Fall  on  this  beauteous  rose. 

Dear  sister !  keep  this  little  flower, 
Which  blooms  so  sweet  for  thee, 
And  oft  in  twilight's  pensive  hour, 
„  When  gone — remember  me. 

Pure  incense  arose  from  the  domestic  altar,  and  often  did  the  firm 
voice  of  the  pastor  tremble  under  a  sense  of  the  goodness  of  God. 


70  THEK.ETURM. 

It  was  on  an  evening  of  one  of  those  autumnal  days  which 
often  diffuse  the  beauty  of  a  southern  clime  in  the  surrounding 
atmosphere,  as  this  happy  family  were  seated  at  their  evening's 
employment,  a  carriage  drove  up  the  lawn,  in  which,  from  the 
window,  by  the  clear  light  of  the  silvery  moon,  they  discovered, 
as  they  alighted  from  it,  their  brother,  accompanied  by  two 
young  gentlemen.  They  soon  entered,  and  were  introduced  as 
Edward  Middleton  and  Charles  Bentley,  who  were  his  classmates 
at  Yale. 

The  latter  was  tall,  well  proportioned,  handsome,  and  ex- 
tremely polite — a  beau  ideal  of  the  polished  world  ;  but  there  was 
an  expression  of  haughtiness  in  the  curl  of  his  lip,  as  he  cast  a 
hasty  glance  around  the  room.  Edward  Middleton,  a  fine,  noble- 
looking  young,  roan,  in  the  full  flush  of  youthful  manhood,  as  he 
cast  his  expressive  eyes  around  the  apartment,  seemed  delighted 
with  all  he  saw.  If  he  was  pleased  with  the  appearance  of  the 
parsonage  as  he  rode  up  the  beautiful  lawn,  decorated  with  dah- 
lias of  varied  hues,  artimisias,  and  every  description  of  those 
bright,  gaudy  flowers  which,  at  seasons  of  the  year,  charm  every 
eye;  if  he  in  voluntarily  jumped  from  the  carriage  after  Henry,  as 
they  stopped  before  this  charming  spot,  and  with  him  caught  a 
glimpse  of  the  bright  faces  peeping  from  the  window,  how  was 
he  now  pleased  and  delighted  !  He  looked  from  the  father  to  the 
mother,  to  her  beautiful  daughter,  from  her  to  the  two  little  boys, 
and  their  youngest  sister,  whose  eyes  were  fixed  on  thair  beloved 
Henry.  Happy,  thrice  happy  scene  !  Contentment,  innocence, 
and  lore,  were  there.  The  father  spoke ;  but  the  mother,  her 
countenance  radiant  with  the  overflowing  of  a  grateful  heart,  sat 
with  her  hands  clasped  in  her  lap,  in  which  she  held  one  of  her 
little  Adelia's,  who  would  look  alternately  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  then  nestle  in  her  mother's  bosom.  The  little  boys  had 
climbed  upon  their  brother's  knees,  and  were  engaging  him  for 
their  sports  on  the  morrow.  Mary,  with  a  heart  vibrating  like 
the  aspen  leaf,  to  the  feelings  and  sympathies  which  surrounded 
her,  could  only  reply  by  her  smiles  to  the  remarks  of  her  friends, 
as  she  cautiously  wiped  away  a  tear  of  the  purest  joy  from  her 
eyes,  which  vied  in  beauty  with  earth's  brightest  gems,  and 
sparkled  more  resplendently  from  the  liquid  gems  which  filled  them. 
Henry  gazed  with  pride  on  all  around;  his  young  heart  was  full; 
his  eye  rested  upon  his  father  with  delight,  as  he  saw  him  con- 


THE     RKtTIRK.  71 

versing  with  his  friends,  for  he  was  in  early  life  an  elegant  schol- 
ar, and  in  the  University  held  a  high  eminence.  Years  had  but 
brightened  his  intellect,  and  on  this  happy  occasion  he  developed 
the  powers  of  his  feeling,  eloquent  heart.  Henry's  eye  caught  his 
mother's  enraptured  glance,  and  Mary's  ardent  gaze  ;  delicacy 
alone  prevented  their  flying  to  him,  and  folding  him  in  their  warm 
embrace. 

Moments  otrapture  could  you  fear  an  end  ? 

"  That  ghastly  thought,  would  drink  up  all  your  joy, 

And  quite  unparadise"  this  realm  of  bliss. 

Before  they  retired  family  prayers  were  offered,  and  on  their 
pillows  each  one  sought  repose.  But  "  tired  nature's  sweet  res- 
torer" came  not  to  all ;  Mary's  eyes,  although  "  unsullied  with  a 
tear,"  she  could  not  close  as  usual.  She  had  before  seen  Edward 
Middleton,  and  she  loved  him ;  he  of  whom  she  had  so  often 
dreamed,  and  of  whom  her  brother  spoke  in  the  most  glowing  terms 
as  his  friend.  The  next  morning,  as  she  was  gathering  fresh  flow- 
ers for  the  vases,  he  approached  and  begged  permission  to  assist 
her.  His  discriminating  eye  soon  selected  the  fairest ;  as  he  pre- 
sented them  to  her,  he  took  one  of  the  purest  white,  and  said, "  ac- 
cept this,  Miss  Heartly,  a«  an  emblem  of  yourself."  She  received 
it  with  blushing  sweetness,  and,  as  she  raised  her  eyes,  the  glance 
which  emanated  from  his  thrilled  through  her  soul,  and  the  words 
*'  thank  you,"  died  away  upon  her  parted  lips.  At  that  instant 
Charles  Bentley  drew  near ;  he  had  witnessed  the  scene,  and  felt, 
as  the  wily  serpent  did  when  he  saw  our  first  parents  in  Eden's 
blissful  bowers,  that  it  was  to  him 

"  Sight  hateful — sight  tormenting." 

He  had  heard  much  of  Mary  Heartly  ;  often  had  she  been  the 
theme  of  her  loved  brother's  conveisation,  and  he  knew  that  Mr. 
Middleton's  visit  was  to  her,  whom  he  had  before  seen  and  admired. 
Though  confident  of  Edward's  favored  reception,  he  took  every 
opportunity  of  rendering  himself  agreeable,  to  win  Mary's  gentle 
heart,  and  make  an  avowal  of  his  love.  She  received  his  proposal 
with  modest  dignity,  but  declined  his  attentions. 

Stung  to  the  quick,  he  left  the  day  following.  His  sudden  de- 
parture caused  Henry  some  uneasiness,  and  he  inquired  the  rea- 
aon  of  his  sister,  who  told  him  all.  "  You  have  done  right," 
said  he ;  "  my  Mary — it  is  not  wealth  that  will  make  you  happy ; 


72  THE     RKTUXtf. 

true  merit,  like  a  never-failing  spring,  will  ever  tend  to  enjoyment 
Let  the  man  you  love  be  worthy  of  you." 

She  affectionately  pressed  his  hand  in  silence,  and  at  that  moment 
their  father  appeared.  He  was  soon  made  acquainted  with  the 
circumstances,  and  enjoined  silence  respecting  it.  Mrs.  Heartly,  on 
Henry's  arrival,  had  perceived  in  him,  occasionally,  a  disposition 
to  cough.  She  did  not  at  first  mention  it,  but  her  maternal  bosom 
augured  evil.  She  thought  it  might  pass  off  in  a  few  days,  but 
was  disappointed.  In  answer  to  her  inquiries,  he  always  replied 
he  was  well,  and  gently  reproved  her  for  her  unnecessary  anx- 
iety. The  time  drew  near  when  he  and  his  friend  were  to  leave 
his  paternal  roof.  Mr.  Middleton  had  become  ardently  attached 
to  Mary.  Her  innocent  loveliness  had  won  his  undivided  heart ; 
and  sweet  were  the  hours  he  passed  with  her  in  reading,  walking, 
and  listening  to  her  soft  voice,  as  she  accompanied  her  guitar.  He 
loved  the  sensibility  of  her  soul,  the  fervor  of  her  piety,  which  led 
her  to  breathe  cadences  of  such  thrilling  pathos,  such  entrancing 
melody,  as  awakened,  as  if  by  magic,  those  sensations  in  his  bosom 
which  drew  from  him  the  warm  expressions  of  his  subdued  heart. 
As  he  gazed  upon  this  sweet  child  of  nature,  the  fascination  of 
her  mind  riveted  the  chains  her  artless  beauty  forged,  and  he 
longed  to  call  her  his  that  no  rude  hand  might  tear  her  from  him. 

To  Edward  and  Mary  the  hours  flew  imperceptibly  away ;  they 
plighted  their  young  vows  in  the  pastor's  beautiful  garden,  when 
the  flowers  shed  their  delightful  fragrance,  and  seemed  vicing  with 
each  other  to  attract  the  eyes  of  the  one  who  had  arranged  them 
in  their  perfect  order.  Herself  the  fairest  flower,  unconscious  of 
her  surpassing  loveliness,  she  listened  to  the  fascinating  voice  of 
Edward,  as  he  pictured  before  her  youthful  imagination,  years  of 
unclouded  happiness.  The  day  arrived  when  Henry  and  his 
friend  were  to  leave  the  parsonage  for  New- York.  Henry,  after 
embracing  his  little  brother  and  sister,  turning  to  Mary,  said,  "  In 
a  few  months  we  shall  return,"  and,  as  the  soft  flush  of  beauty 
lighted  up  her  cheek,  he  whispered,  "when  you  will  be  given 
away  forever."  He  took  his  father's  hand,  and  received  his  part- 
ing blessing.  Last  was  his  mother — she  was  pale,  and  her  eyes 
red  with  weeping ;  clasping  him  in  her  arms,  she  held  him  long 
to  her  agonized  bosom.  Tears,  burning  tears,  stole  down  her 
face,  for  she  felt  a  sickness  at  her  heart — a  presentiment  that  this 
washer  last  embrace.  "  God  bless  you,  my  beloved  son  !"  she  cried; 


THE      BET U EN.  73 

"  oh,  fly  to  Him  in  every  time  of  need."  Henry  folded  her  closely 
to  his  bosom,  as  he  whispered,  "  farewell,  my  mother !" 

As  the  drops  of  dew  on  the  blushing  leaves  of  the  rose,  so  stood 
the  tears  on  the  beautiful  cheeks  of  Mary,  which  fell  fast  from  her 
humid  eyes,  as  she  received  the  hardly  articulate  adieu  of  Edward. 
He  took  her  passive  hand,  and  led  her  to  her  father,  saying,  "  Into 
your  care  I  commit  this  precious  trust ;  keep  her  for  me."  The 
servants  had  taken  their  trunks  from  the  hall,  and  announced  that 
all  was  ready.  They  were  gone,  and  silence  reigned  in  the  pas- 
tor's dwelling. 

Six  months  from  this  period  had  elapsed,  when  little  Gilbert, 
softly  whispering  his  father,  asked  him  the  startling  question 
when  his  brother  Henry  would  return  ? 

For  some  time  after  the  departure  of  Henry  and  Edward,  every 
mail  brought  letters  of  love  and  affection  to  this  happy  family. 
Henry  mentioned  his  leaving  New- York  for  a  short  time,  to  ac- 
company Mr.  Middleton  as  far  as  Washington,  on  his  intended 
tour ;  he  thought  it  might  be  of  service  to  him,  as  his  health  was 
delicate.  After  an  absence  of  two  months,  he  returned  to  New- 
York,  but  his  letters  only  brought  a  confirmation  of  his  illness. 
Edward's  had  entirely  ceased,  and  a  paleness  came  over  the  beau- 
tiful face  of  Mary,  "  who  never  told  her  grief,"  but  her  parents 
marked  the  change,  and  trembled  for  its  consequence.  Her  elastic 
step  became  slow,  and  her  sylph-like  form  no  longer  glided  like 
the  fawn  before  them. 

She  loved  with  all  the  ardor  of  youth,  and  had  received  letters 
from  Edward,  which  she  treasured  up  as  a  sacred  deposit.  She 
had  read  them  again  and  again,  and  laid  them  in  her  bosom.  By 
some  unaccountable  circumstance  they  had  ceased,  and  she 
knew  not  where  the  beloved  of  her  young  heait  now  was.  Per- 
haps he  loved  another,  and  she  was  forgotten.  Uncertainty  rested 
upon  this  once  happy  family;  and  it  was  while  musing  upon  these 
events,  that  Mr.  Heartly  placed  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  and  sighed 
in  the  fullness  of  his  soul,  as  little  Gilbert  urged  him  to  answer 
his  questions ;  for  his  young  heart  participated  in  the  general 
gloom,  although  he  knew  it  not,  and  he  longed  for  his  brother  to 
return,  that  all  might  be  bright  again.  "  Sister,  dc  sing,"  said 
he ;  "  here  is  your  guitar,"  placing  it  before  her;  "  sing  to  me  as 
you  used  to  do,"  and  he  softly  whispered,  "  when  Mi.  Middleton 
was  here !" 


74  THE    RETURN. 

She  clasped  him  in  her  arms,  and  burst  into  tears.  The  dear 
child,  not  willing  to  yield  his  point,  collected  his  books  and 
took  them  to  his  mother.  "  Will  you,"  said  he,  "  hear  me 
reaJ  and  say  my  lesson  ?  I  will  recite  the  one  brother  Henry 
taught  me,  and  you  and  father  must  clap  your  hands  when  I  am 
done,  just  as  you  used  to."  That  angel  woman,  regardless  of  her 
own  feelings,  strove  to  render  her  little  son  happy,  although  he 
had  touched  the  finest  chord  of  her  soul ;  and  as  her  bosom  hove 
with  a  convulsive  effort,  she  told  him  to  begin.  He  commenced, 
but  suddenly  stopped. 

*'  Father,"  said  he,  looking  around,"  what  is  that  ?"  He  bounded 
to  the  window,  for  his  ear  had  caught  the  distant  sound  of  a  car- 
riage. "  Come  h,ere,"  said  he,  "  for  I  see  something  coming 
very  slowly."  Amid  the  shadows  of  the  evening,  they  descried  a 
carriage.  vJt  drew  near— it  turned  toward  their  dwelling — it 
stopped  at  the  door.  All  was  intense  anxiety. 

"  Who  is  it  ?"  said  Mary. 

"  Hush  !"  said  her  discreet  mother.  "  Let  us  raise  no  hopes 
nor  anticipate  joy,  but  calmly  wait." 

Mr  H.  went  to  the  door,  and  soon  returned.  "  Come,  my  love," 
said  he  to  his  wife,  "  our  beloved  Henry  has  come  ;  will  you  not 
go  and  meet  him  ?" 

"I  cannot,"  she  replied — for  she  saw  by  her  husband's  looks 
that  something  dreadful  awaited  her. 

Mary  sprang  forward,  and  returned  with  her  beloved,  idolized 
brother.  He  clasped  his  mother  to  his  bosom,  who  silently  re- 
turned his  embrace,  as  she  beheld  him  pale,  wan,  and  enfeebled. 
Although  cold,  there  was  an  unnatural  heat  in  his  breath,  and 
she  beheld  with  agony  upon  his  countenance,  the  premonitor  of 
the  tomb!  While  under  her  mingled  emotions  she  fainted.  Her 
husband  assisted  her  to  a  sofa;  Henry  knelt  at  her  feet  assuring 
her  he  was  better;  and  Mary,  kissing  her  mother,  begged  her 
to  be  composed.  Mrs.  H.  soon  became  tranquil — the  deep  agony 
of  her  soul  was  over.  The  bitterness  of  death  was  lost  in  the  in- 
terview so  long  desired,  so  often  dreaded,  so  truly  anticipated. 
From  that  moment  she  arose  in  her  Saviour's  strength.  With  her 
faith  fixed  on  heaven,  she  forgot  herself,  forgot  earth,  and  lived 
only  for  her  son  and  his  soul's  salvation.  She  saw  the  grave 
opening  before  him  ;  she  viewed  the  dark  chamber  of  the  tomb, 
where  the  son  she  loved  so  well  must  soon  lie  ;  where  that  beau- 


THE     RETURN.  75 

tiful  form  and  intelligent  eye  must  repose  in  darkness.  As  soon 
as  Henry  was  sufficiently  rested,  he  related  to  his  listening  friends 
what  they  so  much  wished  to  know.  Ho,  soon  after  leaving 
home,  found  his  cough  very  troublesome.  Edward,  anxious  for 
his  health,  knowing  how  dear  he  was  to  his  friends,  procured  him 
a  physician,  who  thought  a  change  of  climate  might  be  beneficial 
to  him.  It  was  Mr.  Middleton's  intention  to  travel,  and  spend 
about  six  months  in  different  parts  of  the  United  States,  then  re- 
turn, accompany  Henry  home,  and  receive  from  a  father's  hand 
his  precious  treasure.  They  informed  Mr.  H.  of  their  intentions, 
carefully  concealing  Henry's  indisposition,  hoping  soon  to  com- 
municate the  pleasing  intelligence  of  his  recovery. 

At  Washington  they  were  met  by  Mr.  Bentley,  who,  chagrined 
and  mortified  by  Miss  Heartly's  refusal,  had  vowed  vengeance 
upon  that  happy  family  ;  and  had  long  been  waiting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  inflict  a  wound  which  Mary,  in  particular,  should  feel. 
As  soon  as  he  ascertained  from  Mr.  Middieton  his  intention  of 
travelling,  he  offered  to  accompany  him,  and  was  accepted.  On 
leaving,  Mr.  Middieton  gave  Henry  a  letter  to  Mary,  assuring 
her  of  his  undiminished  love,  his  intention  of  soon  returning  and 
claiming  her  by  the  endearing  appellation  of  husband.  Henry  re- 
turned to  New-York,  but  finding  his  cough  increase,  he  settled  his 
business  and  hastened  to  his  beloved  home.  He  had  received  but 
two  letters  from  his  friend — the  first  in  his  usual  warm,  friendly 
style  ;  the  last,  cold  and  distant,  and  without  alluding  to  the  par- 
sonage. He  was  surprised-and  grieved  on  finding  that  Mary  had 
received  no  intelligence  from  Edward.  He  conversed  freely  on  the 
subject  with  his  parents,  but  said  little  to  Mary,  who  strove  to  be 
cheerful  for  her  brother's  sake;  while,  at  the  same  time,  her  re- 
tired moments  and  sleepless  nights  witnessed  her  utter  desolation 
of  soul.  "Oh,  my  Edward  i"  she  would  often  exclaim — "oh, 
my  Edward,  where  are  you  ?  Has  another  supplanted  me  in 
your  affections  ?  If  so,  indulgent  heaven,  let  me  never  know  it; 
let  me  fall  and  die,  like  my  own  fair  flowers,  and  with  my  beloved 
Henry,  soar  to  our  native  heaven  !" 

Week  after  week  passed  away — the  storms  of  winter  beat  around 
that  hallowed  spot,  while  the  fervent  prayers  of  the  parents,  and 
the  secret  sighs  of  the  sufferer  mingled  with  the  mournful  breeze 
and  the  howling  tempest.  Often  would  Henry,  for  he  was  now 
confined  to  his  room,  request  his  mother  and  sister  to  bring  their 


76  THERE-TURN. 

work-baskets,  and  sit  with  him.  His  little  brothers  and  sister, 
finding  his  strength  decay,  teased  him  no  longer  with  their  balls 
and  tops,  but  stood  still  at  a  distance,  as  their  mother,  with  her 
linger  on  her  lips,  motioned  them  to  silence.  Occasionally,  as 
they  peeped  in  at  the  door,  they  were  admitted  for  a  few  moments, 
and  each  in  turn  permitted  to  take  their  brother's  emaciated  hand 
in  theirs,  and  softly  imprint  upon  it  a  kiss  of  love.  One  very 
cold  afternoon,  when  nature  was  locked  in  adamantine  chains,  all 
were  at  Henry's  particular  request,  seated  in  his  room.  He  looked 
at  his  father,  calm,  dignified  and  submissive,  who  sat  with  his 
eyes  closed,  his  hand  resting  upon  the  word  of  God  which  he  had 
just  been  reading.  His  mother  evidently  struggled  with  conflict- 
ing emotions ;  while  Mary  was  silent  over  her  piece  of  embroi- 
dery. As  he  gazed  upon  her,  he  saw  a  tear  fall  from  her  eye  upon 
a  beautiful  rose  she  had  just  finished,  and,  blending  with  its  rich 
colors,  for  a  moment  it  seemed  robbed  of  its  beauty.  She  looked 
at  her  brother,  who,  in  his  sister,  beheld  a  striking  resemblance  of 
the  lovely  flower.  Disappointment  had  withered  the  bloom  on 
her  cheek.  As  she  rested  it  upon  her  fairy  hand,  and  sighed  a 
response  to '  her  brother's  anticipated  thoughts,  he  motioned  for 
her  to  approach,  when,  ben.ling  over  him,  he  whispered,  "  Fear 
not,  my  dear  sister,  all  will  yet  be  well ;  and  your  own  Edward 
will  restore  again,  by  his  presence,  the  bloom  on  your  cheek." 

She  sobbed  aloud  in  the  embrace  of  her  brother,  as  he  held  her 
close  to  his  bosom.  What  a  scene  for  their  beloved  parents  ! 
Overcome  by  their  emotions,  they  involuntarily  fell  upon  their 
knees,  and  fled  by  faith  to  their  only  refuge.  Fervent  was  that 
prayer,  and  as  the  recording  angel  registered  it  in  heaven  it  was 
heard  and  answered.  The  ensuing  month  brought  a  letter,  which 
was  quickly  opened.  In  it  was  one  inclosed  to  Mary.  They 
were  from  Edward.  He  was  in  New- York,  and  would  soon  be 
with  them.  At  Henry's  request,  his  father  read  as  follows  : 

"  MY  DEAR  FRIEND — My  feelings  at  this  moment  rush  upon  me 
with  such  impetuosity,  I  can  hardly  allow  myself  time  to  write 
one  word,  so  anxious  am  I  to  see  you.  Henry,  could  I  but  know 
how  you  are,  how  our  beloved  Mary  is,  and  our  dear  friends,  I 
should  feel  relieved.  But  oh  !  uncertainty  rests  upon  everything 
dear  to  me.  I  will  try  to  be  composed,  while  I  state  to  you  the 
cause  of  my  present  agitation.  Charles  Bentley,  whom  you  left 
with  me  as  a  companion  and  friend,  is  dead  !  but  my  resentment 


THE      RETURN.  TT 

follows  him  no  further  than  the  grave.  He  has  been  a  deceiver — a 
villain ;  he  has  made  me  wretched,  and  wrapt  all  my  bright  visions 
in  gloom  and  obscurity.  We  travelled  through  different  States, 
visited  every  place  of  notoriety  much  to  my  satisfaction,  and  I  should 
have  been  charmed  with  my  tour,  but  for  your  and  your  sister's 
silence.  I  wrote  continually,  but  received  no  answer.  When  I 
spoke  of  you  to  Mr.  Bentley,  he  would  reply  by  a  disdainful  smile, 
and  sing,  '  They  say  that  absence  conquers  love,'  in  an  ironical, 
unfeeling  manner.  Two  weeks  since  he  was  seized  with  a  ma- 
lignant disease,  whichjerminated  in  his  death.  I  rendered  him 
every  assistance  in  my  power,  and  was  continually  with  him.  He 
seemed  one  day  unusually  agitated  as  he  looked  upon  me.  I  in- 
quired the  cause. 

" ' I  am  very  ill,'  said  he ;  '  my  physicians  give  me  little  encou- 
ragement. Oh,  Mr.  Middleton,  lam  wretched  beyond  description  I 
Now  do  T  awake  to  the  awful  realities  of  what  I  have  ever  ridi- 
culed— the  immortality  of  the  soul.  I  am  a  villain,  a  deceiver ;  I 
have  ruined  my  own  soul,  and  I  fear  ruined  your  peace  for  ever.* 
I  asked  him  what  he  meant?  He  replied,  '  T  loved  Mary  Heartly  ; 
I  offered  myself,  and  was  refused,  as  you  know.'  'No,'  I  replied; 
'  1  never  knew  it.'  '  Noble  girl !'  said  he  ;  '  and  did  she  then  con- 
ceal what  so  many  of  her  sex  would  have  triumphed  to  declare  ? 
Buf  it  is  too  late  to  make  reparation.  Now,  then,  Mr.  M.,  1  was 
determined  upon  revenge ;  I  hated  you  because  you  were  beloved, 
and  I  felt  as  if  you  gloried  in  it.  I  swore  revenge ;  I  intercepted 
your  letters — not  one  has  ever  reached  your  friends.  I  wrote  Mr. 
H.  in  your  name.  You  know  how  well  I  can  counterfeit  your 
hand.  It  was  a  letter  calculated  to  wound  deep,  and  lead  him  to 
believe  your  friendship  for  him  and  his  sister  had  ceased.'  Oh, 
Henry,  my  friend,  judge  what  my  feelings  were.  Seeing  my  dis- 
tress— 'Oh  !  forgive  me,'  said  he,  with  an  imploring  look  ;  'you 
will  see  them  again — -you  will  be  happy.  But  where,  oh, 
where  shall  I  appear !'  His  anguish  was  intense ;  I  bent  over 
him  as  he  grasped  my  hand.  '  Forgive  me,'  said  he.  '  I  do,'  1 
cried  ;  '  I  do  forgive  you.'  He  lived  but  one  day  after  this ;  and 
after  seeing  him  consigned  to  his  mother  earth,  I  have  written 
this  hasty  letter.  I  shall  write  to  my  beloved,  my  injured  Mary, 
and  be  with  you  immediately.  Oh  !  that  I  could  annihilate  both 
time  and  space,  and  be  with  you.  Yours, 

."  E. 


78  THE      RETURN. 

Mary's  letter  contained  sentiments  of  unaltered  love  and  fidelity. 
What  a  change  !  Health  and  strength  quailed  beneath  the  over- 
powering effects  of  joy ;  and  she  who  had  never  sunk  amid  earth's 
desolations,  now  fainted.  On  the  following  morning,  Mary 
Heartly  entered  the  room  where  her  flowers  were  kept — flowers 
often  watered  by  the  tears  of  sadness,  but  now  moistened  by  those 
of  joy.  She  loved  them  all — but  the  one  most  dear  was  the  white 
dahlia,  from  which  Edward  had  selected  one  on  the  first  morning 
after  they  met,  and  presented  her.  Overcome  with  mingled  emo- 
tions, she  sank  involuntarily  upon  her  knees;  and  so  engaged  was 
she  in  prayer,  so  fervent  were  the  aspirations  of  her  soul,  so 
deep  were  her  devotions,  that  she  heeded  not  the  sound  of  the 
carriage  which  conveyed  Edward  Middleton  to  the  parsonage. 
He  was  met  at  the  door  by  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Heartly,  who  received 
him  with  paternal  kindness.  As  he  entered  the  room,  he  cast  his 
eyes  around  in  search  of  still  dearer  objects.  He  was  informed  of 
Henry's  illness,  but  it  was  thought  proper  that  he  should  not  see 
him  immediately. 

"  Then  lead  me  to  Mary,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  H.  led  the  way  to  the  flower-room ;  the  door  was  open 
just  sufficient  for  them  to  have  a  view  of  the  fair  pleader.  Her 
eyes  were  filled  with  tears — were  turned  upward  ;  her  hands 
were  clasped  together,  while  a  beautiful  glow  played  over%er 
almost  divine  countenance,  as  she  ejaculated, 

"  Let  me  but  see  my  Edward  again,  oh  !  my  heavenly  Father  !" 

"  You  shall,  my  Mary — my  lovely,  injured  Mary,"  said  he, 
and  caught  her  fainting  form  in  his  arms. 

Restored  to  life,  to  happiness,  she  gazed  upon  the  beloved  face 
of  Edward,  and  listened  to  his  well-known  voice.  Mrs.  H.  hast- 
ened with  her  husband  to  their  beloved  Henry,  to  inform  him  of 
his  friend's  arrival.  He  was  calm  and  collected ;  a  holy  joy 
beamed  in  his  eye,  for  he,  too,  had  held  sweet  communion  with  his 
Maker,  and  by  faith  had  tasted  the  blessedness  of  a  brighter  world. 

In  a  few  moments  Edward  and  Mary  entered.  Henry  extended 
his  hand  and  welcomed  his  friend,  who  started  at  beholding  the 
change  in  him;  his  beautiful  form  prostrate;  his  eloquent  eye 
..sunken,  yet  resplendently  bright ;  the  hectic  flush  across  his  pale 
face,  and  his  raven  hair  falling  over  one  of  the  most  beautiful 
foreheads  he  had  ever  beheld,  thrilled  through  his  soul.  Henry 
perceived  it,  and  exerting  all  his  strength,  said, 


THE     RETURN.  79 

"  Look  not  thus  upon  me,  Edward,  bat  rather  rejoice  I  am  so 
near  my  Father's  house  above — so  nearly  released  from  the  con- 
flicting scenes  of  life." 

Together  they  conversed  upon  the  past  events,  upon  the  perfi- 
dy of  Charles  Bentley,  and  rejoiced  that  vice  was  not  permitted  to 
triumph  over  virtue.  It  was  Henry's  wish  that  Edward  and 
Mary  should  be  soon  united,  and  the  day  was  fixed  for  the  cere- 
mony. The  lamp  of  life  burned  dimly,  and  its  flickering  light 
seemed  ready  to  expire ;  but  death  for  once  spared  his  victim  until 
his  last  earthly  wish  was  accomplished. 

On  the  morning  of  the  eventful  day,  little  Gilbert  entered  with 
his  brother  and  sister,  bearing  a  small  basket  of  white  roses. 
They  took  them  to  their  mother,  who  had  them  formed  into  a 
beautiful  wreath  according  to  Henry's  directions,  which  she  then 
gave  to  him.  The  children  were  seated  ;  the  nurse  and  servants 
entered,  happy,  yet  melancholy,  and  took  their  seats  in  silence. 
Mr.  Heartly  entered  with  light  and  tremulous  step  ;  he  assisted 
Mrs.  H.  in  supporting  Henry,  as  the  nurse  pillowed  him  up.  She 
took  her  station  behind  her  beloved  son,  whose  head  rested  on 
her  maternal  bosom.  As  Edward  and  Mary  entered,  they  per- 
ceived a  change  in  him  ;  they  knelt  at  his  bed  side — he  laid  his 
hand  upon  their  heads,  and  uttered  a  short  prayer.  As  they  arose, 
he  placed  the  wreath  of  white  roses  around  the  head  of  his  idol- 
ized sister,  and  give  her  a  parting  kiss !  A  profound  silence 
reigned  as  Mr  Heartly,  with  the  deepest  emotion,  began  the  cere- 
mony. Mary  was  slightly  pale,  although  happy  in  the  prospect 
of  being  for  ever  united  to  the  one  she  had  ever  so  fondly  loved  ; 
still,  to  her  young  heart,  there  was  something  so  awfully  sacred 
about  her  as  sent  a  chill  to  her  soul.  Occasionally  a  faint  glow 
passed  over  her  beautiful  face,  like  the  reflection  of  a  summer's 
sunset  cloud  upon  the  blue  expanse  of  waters.  Edward  gazed 
with  unmingled  admiration  upon  her  as  he  pressed  her  trembling 
hand,  and  his  warm,  eloquent  blood  mantled  his  manly  brow,  as 
they  gave  themselves  to  each  other  in  that  chamber  of  death. 
Henry  had  fixed  his  eyes  intently  upon  them :  as  the  ceremony 
closed,  a  celestial  smile  played  over  his  icy  features.  He  placed 
his  hand  in  his  mother's,  and  turned  his  cold  cheek  upon  her  be- 
loved face  ;  and  quiet  and  serene  as  the  first  born  pledge  of  love 
falls  asleep  in  its  young  mother's  bosom,  so  did  this  pure  and 
gentle  spirit  pass  into  the  hands  of  Him  who  gave  it. 


A    TALE    OF    THE    REVOLUTION. 


SUGGESTED  BY  THE  LATE  CELEBRATION  AT  BUNKER  HILL. 


"  OH  !  is  not  this  a  favored  spot  ? 

'Tis  the  high  place  of  freedom's  birth. 
God  of  our  fathers  !  is  it  not 

The  holiest  spot  of  all  the  earth  ?-" 

I  SAID,  as  I  gazed  upon  the  immense  multitude  which  crowded 
Boston  heights,  on  the  late  memorable  and  glorious  celebration. 
It  was  a  day  of  uncommon  loveliness ;  a  morning  without  clouds. 
The  sun,  as  if  exulting  on  the  occasion,  appeared  in  his  most 
brilliant  attire,  and  cast  a  flood  of  the  purest  light  over  the  whole 
heavens.  The  air  was  soft  and  balmy ;  the  atmosphere  exhili- 
rating,  as  if  filled  with  the  wild  harpings  of  martyred  souls,  who 
hovered  around  and  chimed  their  sweet  response  to  the  many 
thousands  there  congregated.  Amid  that  immense  throng,  my 
attention  was  particularly  arrested  by  an  aged  man,  who  sup- 
ported himself,  partly  by  the  fence  on  which  he  leaned,  and  partly 
by  his  staff.  He  gazed  around  upon  the  multitude,  and  then  raised 
his  eyes  to  the  noble  spire  which  towered  in  all  the  majesty  of 
American  glory  ;  and  covering  his  face  with  his  hands,  wept  in 
the  fullness  of  his  soul. 

I  approached  him  with  caution  and  deep  respect,  for  there  was 
a  sacredness  in  his  tears  which  inspired  me  with  awe,  as  I 
gazed  upon  his  venerable  form,  bent  with  infirmity,  while  over 
his  sunken  temples  the  silvery  locks  flowed  carelessly  in  the 
breeze.  After  the  throng  had  dispersed,  and  the  noise  and  shouts 
of  the  populace  had  ceased — although  surrounded  with  loveliness 
and  beauty,  (for  never  were  brighter  eyes  seen,  in  this  land  of 
song,  than  sparkled  that  day  on  that  consecrated  ground,)  I  tore 
myself  from  the  fascination  of  their  charms,  and  followed  the 
aged  veteran,  determined,  if  possible,  to  learn  the  cause  of  his 


A     TALK      OF      THE      REVOLUTION.  81 

emotion.  He  was  among  the  last  who  left  the  enchanted  spot, 
when,  casting  his  eyes  upward,  he  exclaimed — 

"  Stand  thou  there,  thou  noble  spire,  a  lasting  monument  of  our 
nation's  gfory,  and  a  terror  to  every  foreign  foe ;  lay  your  foun- 
dation deep,  for  the  soil  on  which  you  stand,  was  moistened  by 
the  choicest  blood  of  my  country  !" 

He  tottered  under  the  mingled  emotions  of  his  heart,  and  would 
have  fallen  had  I  not  caught  his  arm  ;  for  in  his  enthusiasm,  he 
raised  his  hand,  and  the  staff  on  which  he  leaned  had  dropped.  I 
picked  it  up  and  presented  it  to  him.  He  received  it  with  grati- 
tude; and,  as  he  walked  along,  I  accompanied  him. 

"  This  is  a  proud  day  for  America,"  I  remarked,  "  and  the  ex- 
citement will  be  long  felt  by  those  who  witnessed  the  interesting 
scene." 

Looking  upon  me  with  surprise,  he  replied — 

"  A  proud  day,  indeed  I  can  remember  well,  when  a  foreign 
foe  paraded  through  these  streets,  and  brave-hearted  colonists  met 
the  points  of  their  bayonets." 

"  You  are  weary,"  said  I,  "  and  if  you  will  permit  me  to 
convey  you  to  your  home,  I  will  order  a  carriage,  and  take  you 
there." 

"  You  are  near  my  home,"  said  he,  pointing  to  a  neat  white 
house,  but  a  little  distance  from  the  road ;  "  and  if  you  will  enter 
my  humble  dwelling,  I  will  tell  you  a  story  which  will  ever  be 
fresh  in  my  mind,  and  which  this  day's  scene,  as  old  as  I  am,  has 
rendered  vivid  in  my  remembrance." 

He  was  received  at  the  door  by  an  intelligent-looking  woman, 
who  politely  invited  me  to  enter,  which  I  did.  Seated  in  his  easy 

chair,  surrounded  by  myself,  Mrs. ,  and  two  fine  lads,  who, 

with  their  cheeks  glowing  with  health  and  beauty,  had  just  re- 
turned from  the  all-absorbing  monument,  he  related  the  following 
narrative. 

"  My  name  is  Sidney  ;  my  forefathers  were  among  those  who 
were  treated  with  rigor  and  ciuelty  during  the  reign  of  Elizabeth, 
Queen  of  England,  and,  in  the  commencement  of  the  reign  of  James 
the  first,  fled  from  the  kingdom  to  Holland.  After  remaining  there 
a  few  years  they  sailed  for  America,  and  in  1620  arrived  in  Ply- 
mouth, where  the  first  permanent  settlement  was  made  in  New 
England.  The  colony  then  was  small ;  they  landed  amid  all  the 
perils  and  privations  of  a  barren  shore,  and  labored  under  various 


82  A     TALK     OF      THE      REVOLUTION. 

difficulties  in  erecting  habitations  for  their  wives  and  children.  At 
the  time  Governor  Winthrop  and  others  came  over,  they  brought 
the  charter  of  the  colony,  and  founded  Boston.  My  grandfather 
at  that  time  became  a  resident  of  this  town  ;  he  suffered  much  on 
account  of  the  hostilities  of  the  Indians,  and  lived  through  those 
days  of  terror  and  oppression,  which  tried  the  patriot  spirits  of 
our  fathers.  He  had  but  one  child,  Frederick  Sidney,  who  was  the 
father  of  three  sons,  James,  Henry,  and  myself,  and  one  daughter. 
He  inherited  all  the  energy  of  his  father,  and  was  one  of  the 
bravest  men  of  the  colony  :  he  was  among  the  first  who  rose  up 
against  the  taxation  imposed  upon  the  colonists.  The  stamp  act 
he  deprecated;  and  helped  to  muffle  the  bells  when  the  knell  of 
freedom  was  tolled  in  this  place. 

"  He  was  determined,  with  others,  to  resist  the  enforcement  of 
British  laws ;  and  when  the  bill  was  repealed  in  England  by  our 
bold  defender,  William  Pitt,  he  assisted  in  firing  the  cannon, 
and  aided  in  all  the  festivities  of  joy.  He  was  one  of  those  fearless 
ones,  who,  disguised  in  their  Indian  costume,  poured  the  tea  into 
the  ocean,  and  came  home  rejoicing.  My  eldest  brother,  (who 
was  married  to  one  of  the  most  lovely  of  women,)  accompanied 
him.  I  can  remember  well,  how  my  father  spoke  to  my  mother 
as  he  entered — '  Come,  Isabel,  make  me  some  toast,  and  biing  me 
some  pure  water;  I  would  rather  drink  it  until  I  die,  than  submit  to 
British  task-masters.'  And  I  can  remember  how  she  spread  that 
oaken  table  with  a  cloth,  white  as  the  pure  snow  of  heaven,  and 
with  what  pleasure  she  listened  to  his  relation  of  that  daring  at- 
tempt, as  the  tears  fell  from  her  eyes  on  the  head  of  my  young 
sister,  who  stood  by  her  side.  On  the  5th  of  September,  1774, 
my  father  was  among  the  delegates  who  met  in  Congress,  at  Phil- 
adelphia. This  session  continued  eight  weeks.  Many  and  long 
were  the  speeches  there  made;  theirs  was  burning  eloquence ; 
their  patriotism  was  pure — flowing  from  hearty  firm  in  the  cause 
of  freedom.  Their  sound  reasonings  and  ardent  vindication  of 
their  rights,  caused  many  of  the  British  Parliament  to  favor  their 
cause,  particularly  Mr.  Pitt,  who  spoke  in  the  highest  terms  of 
the  Congress.  My  eldest  brother,  James,  was  a  captain  in  the 
militia;  my  brother  Henry  was  a  bold,  intrepid  lieutenant,  when  I 
was  18  years  of  age.  Great  was  the  excitement  among  us.  We 
began  to  train  ourselves  to  the  use  of  the  sword  and  musket,  and 
were  among  the  12,000  men  who  stood  ready  to  march  at  a  mo- 


A     TALE     OF      THE     REVOLUTION.  83 

merit's  warning ;  determined  not  to  submit,  but  maintain  our  rights 
against  the  most  powerful  nation  in  the  world. 

"  At  this  time,  the  Colonists  had  collected  a  quantity  of  provi- 
sions and  military  stores  at  Concord,  which  General  Gage  resolved 
to  destroy.  This  news  spread  like  electricity,  and  bells  and  signal 
suns  gave  the  alarm.  My  father  and  brother  were  at  the  battle 
of  Lexington,  and  heard  Major  Pitcairn  exclaim,  •  Disperse,  you 
rebels !'  Well  I  remember  when  Colonel  Ethan  Allen  demanded 
the  surrender  of  Ticonderoga,  and  took  it  without  resistance.  And 
why  ?  because  he  demanded  it  in  the  name  of  the  Great  Jehovah  ! 
who  fought  our  battles  and  gave  us  victory  !  yes,  the  victory  !" 

Here  the  old  gentleman  paused,  and,  raising  his  eyes,  exclaimed, 

"  Oh,  liberty  !  liberty  '.  how  deadly  thou  wert  purchased  !  For 
thee,  the  brightest  flowers  were  withered  that  ever  bloomed  in  the 
western  Acadia.  For  thee,  men  fell,  whose  hearts  were  firm  as 
their  own  mountains.  For  thee,  mothers'  cheeks  became  blanched, 
and  the  young  and  the  lovely  wept  over  their  heart's  first  love, 
be'neath  the  moon's  pale  beams,  and  mingled  their  souls'  deep 
symphonies  with  the  breeze  of  evening  Congress  again  assem- 
bled in  May,  1775,  when  John  Hancock  was  chosen  President, 
and  voted  that  an  arxy  of  20,000  men  should  be  raised,  under 
the  command  of  the  immortal  Washington.  Many  a  night  have 
we  sat  in  close  debate,  and  many  and  fervent  were  the  players 
offered  under  my  paternal  roof.  My  brother's  wife,  as  I  have 
before  mentioned,  was  truly  lovely,  and  was  ardently  attached  to 
her  husband.  Often  have  I  seen  her  twine  her  affectionate  arms 
around  his  neck,  the  tears  flowing  like  rain  from  her  beautiful 
eyes,  and  exclaim,  '  I  love  you,  James;  and  I  love  my  country  t 
be  faithful  to  its  cause ;  and  when  peace  spreads  her  soft  banner 
over  us,  may  we,  with  our  sweet  little  ones,  rest  in  calm  security 
beneath  its  flowing  banners.'  My  mother  possessed  a  true  Roman 
spirit,  while  her  heart  was  filled  with  the  finest  sensibilities  of 
woman.  How  often  have  T  seen  her  weep  as  she  wiped  the  dust 
from  our  muskets,  and  smile  through  her  tears  as  she  gave  them 
to  us,  saying,  •  Never  forsake  your  cause  ;  be  firm  ;  be  faithful !' 

"  The  evening  preceding  the  eventful  battle  of  Bunker  Hill,  we 
eat  around  our  table,  for  the  last  time  together  :  we  gazed  upon 
each  other  in  silence.  My  mother  spoke  not,  but  her  countenance 
was  voluminous  with  feelings  too  deep  for  utterance.  My  sister, 
paler  than  the  mountain  lily,  looked  upon  her  husband  with  in- 


84  A     TALE     OP     THE      REVOLUTION. 

tense  affection,  as  the  tears  fell  fast  on  her  sleeping  babe,  which 
lay  cradled  on  her  bosom  ;  she  rested  her  head  upon  her  hand, 
waiting  for  the  usual  blessing  to  be  implored.  My  father  at- 
tempted to  speak,  but  could  not :  the  solemnity  of  death  reigned 
in  that  peaceful  dwelling,  broken  only  by  sighs  from  the  heart's 
deep  fountain.  At  length,  my  aged  grandfather,  lifting  his  trem- 
bling hands,  and  raising  his  streaming  eyes  to  heaven,  prayed  that 
'  God  would  give  us  the  victory  over  our  enemies ;  bless  us  toge- 
ther ;  bless  us  when  separated  ;  and  finally,  gather  us,  an  unbroken 
band,  in  heaven.'  It  was  our  last  meal,  and  it  was  a  cheerless 
one — like  the  Israelites  of  old,  it  was  eaten  with  bitter  herbs. 

"  The  hour  of  separation  had  come  !  My  father  and  brothers 
were  to  leave  immediately,  and  commence  operations  on  Breed's 
Hill  at  midnight.  We  separated  amid  sobs  and  groans  !  As  the 
door  closed  on  those  beloved  ones,  my  mother  sank  beside  my 
aged  sire,  and  buried  her  face  on  his  knees;  he  laid  his  clasped 
hands  upon  her  head,  and  bowed  his  silvered  brow  in  silence,  and 
incense,  pure  and  holy,  ascended  to  heaven  from  their  souls'  deep 
orisons  !  As  I  received  from  the  arms  of  my  sister  her  sleeping 
babe,  her  blue  eyes  opened  from  her  tranquil  slumbers  amid  this 
scene  of  anguish,  as  the  light  of  heaven  gleams  forth  amid  the 
gathering  tempest.  I  released  it  from  its  mother's  arms  as  she  fell 
senseless  in  mine.  Oh  !  it  was  a  night  of  thrilling  interest — one 
I  shall  never  cease  to  remember!"  exclaimed  the  old  man,  with 
excitement.  "  The  morning  was  ushered  in  by  a  roar  of  artillery ; 
and  every  house-top,  hill,  and  street,  was  crowded  with  anxious 
spectators  I  need  not  tell  you  how  nobly  they  fought — how 
repeatedly  they  vanquished  the  foe ;  I  need  not  say  how  they 
retreated,  overcome  by  numbers.  There  the  brave  Warren  fell ; 
and  with  him,  my  two  brothers !" 

As  the  solitary  oak  is  shaken  by  the  winds  of  many  winters, 
BO  did  this  aged  man  tremble  under  the  mingled  emotions  of  his 
soul's  deep  feeling.  My  tears  flowed  with  his  ;  the  little  boys, 
who  had  often  heard  him  "  recount  his  battles  o'er,"  listened  at 
this  time  with  increased  interest,  and  sobbed  aloud.  The  lady  of 
the  house  advanced,  and  tenderly  soothed  his  bursting  sighs,  say- 
ing, "  My  dear  uncle,  this  is  too  much  for  your  feeble  nature." 
Again  and  again  I  thanked  the  heart-broken  pilgrim,  no  longer  won- 
dering at  the  feelings  he  manifested  on  viewing  the  monument  on 
Bunker  Hill.  Taking  my  hand,  he  exclaimed — 


A     TALE     OF     THE     REVOLUTION.  85 

"  Did  I  not  say  right,  when  I  told  you  the  soil  was  moistened 
by  the  choicest  blood  of  the  nation  ?  A  brother's  blood !  blood, 
which  brought  the  gray  hairs  of  my  aged  grandfather  to  the  grave 
— broke  my  mother's  heart,  and  drove  the  smile  of  joy  for  ever 
from  the  bright  blue  eyes  of  my  beloved  sister.  This  is  her  daugh- 
ter," said  he,  pointing  to  Mrs. ,  "  the  babe  I  took  from  her 

mother's  arms  on  that  eventful  night." 

I  took  her  hand — I  took  his — my  heart  was  full ;  and  bowing, 
I  bade  them  adieu.  It  was  an  eventful  day  to  me,  a  day  which 
will  live  on  the  last  pages  of  my  memory.  I  had  seen  the  famed 
city  of  the  East,  the  grand  theatre  of  events  gone  for  ever — events 
pregnant  with  the  future  destiny  of  my  beloved  country.  I  had 
gazed  on  Bunker  Hill,  till  I  became  inspired  with  the  spirit  of 
Warren  and  his  brave  associates.  I  walked  over  those  grounds, 
wet  with  their  tears,  and  hallowed  by  their  blood.  I  entered 
Faneuil  Hall  with  feelings  of  veneration,  and  almost  listened  to 
catch  the  burst  of  Ciceronian  eloquence  which  had  there  rolled 
over  congregated  assemblies,  and,  by  its  magic  influence,  moved 
them,  as  the  waves  of  the  ocean  are  agitated  by  the  winds  of  hea- 
ven. But  never  were  my  feelings  more  strongly  excited,  and  my 
heart  more  deeply  touched,  than  while  listening  to  the  narrative 
of  the  descendant  of  those  who  fled  from  the  cruel  rage  of  perse- 
cution, and  found  an  asylum 

"  Where  the  star-spangled  banner  in  triumph  doth  wave, 
O'er  the  land  of  the  free,  and  the  home  of  the  brave." 


THOUGHTS    ON    THE    PAST. 


TIME,  where  hast  thou  fled  !  Thou  hast  heen  here,  but  where 
art  thou  now  ?  Where  can  we  trace  thy  steps,  or  listen  to  thy 
awakening  voice  ?  Look  we  to  the  leafless  trees,  now  brown  and 
bare,  bending  beneath  the  tempest  ?  But  yesterday  they  were  co- 
vered with  foliage,  which  scarcely  trembled  in  the  summer's  breeze. 
The  spirit  of  beauty  rested  upon  them,  but  it  has  departed.  Flow- 
ers, which  drank  the  evening  dews,  and  smiled  with  renovated 
loveliness  in  the  morning  beams — opening  their  petals  to  the  rising 
sun,  and  exulting  in  his  splendor — whose  perfume  floating  on  the 
gentle  gale,  embalmed  the  air  with  their  odors — these,  also, 
have  departed  ;  and  all  we  can  "re tain  of  their  beauty,  are  the  trea- 
sured leaves  which  affection  lias  placed  in  some  favorite  book. 
Time,  time  has  laid  his  withering  hand  upon  them, -and  they  have 
passed  away.  Look  we  into  the  dear  domestic  circle,  where  mirth 
and  song  resounded  through  the  dwelling ;  where  the  young  and 
the  beautiful  clustered  around  their  parents,  and  drank  in  their 
fullest  bliss  from  their  smiles  and  approbation ;  where  the  beam- 
ing eye,  the  light  step,  the  merry  voice  echoed  and  re-echoed  from 
day  to  day;  where  hearts  light  as  their  own  mountain  air,  beat 
in  sweet  unison  with  each  other,  unconscious  of  what  awaited 
them  upon  the  tremulous  billows  of  life.  Where  are  they  now  ? 
They  were — but  now,  now  where  are  they  ?  Time  has  been  there, 
but  is  gone.  The  hearth  is  desolate,  the  music  has  ceased  ;  the 
light  step,  the  pleasant  laugh,  is  heard  no  more  !  The  spirit  of 
beauty  placed  her  stamp  upon  the  fairest  of  earth's  creatures,  but 
they  vanished  benealh  her  plastic  hand !  The  parents  sleep  in 
tke  tomb;  some  have  passed  into  maturity,  while  the  bright- 
eyed  and  beautiful,  who  were  actors  upon  life's  busy  stage,  are 
no  more  !  The  family  circle  has  narrowed;  the  harp  hangs  ne- 
glected, the  piano's  notes  are  hushed,  the  books  remain  untouched, 
and  the  music-seat  is  desolate.  The  spirit  of  beauty,  which 


THOUGHTS     ON      THE     PAST. 

delighted  in  lingering  over  a  scene  so  pure,  has  departed !  Who 
are  those  that  sit  weeping,  as  the  grate  burns  brightly,  and  the 
astral  lamp  emits  its  softened  lustre  ?  Why  do  they  weep,  when 
all  around  bespeaks  comfort  and  enjoyment  ?  Why  do  they  weep  ? 
Because  their  hearts  are  full  of  sorrow.  "  They  had  but  one,  one 
darling  child,"  who  grew  up  in  all  the  pride  of  beauty. 

"  Each  morn  their  life  they  lighted  at  her  eye." 
From  the  dawn  of  infancy  they  watched  each  opening  charm, 
cherished  each  honeyed  word,  steadied  each  trembling  step,  until 
increased  strength  enabled  her  to  approach  them,  and  eagerly  share 
the  impassioned  kiss  of  fond  affection.  From  infancy  to  child- 
hood they  loved  and  caressed  her ;  from  childhood  to  youth,  they 
idolized — they  more  than  loved  her.  She  was  the  light  of  their 
eyes,  the  joy  of  their  hearts,  the  sun  of  their  existence.  Theirs 
was  a  wealth  greater  than  Peru — more  valuable  than  all  the  riches 
of  the  East.  On  such  an  evening  as  this,  she  would  strew  the 
table  with  her  choicest  books,  and  read  aloud  to  them.  Her  voice 
was  as  sweet  as  a  seraph's,  and  such  was  the  melting  expres- 
sion of  her  words,  that  music  flowed  in  every  sentence ;  while 
the  characters,  feelings,  and  scenery  described,  stood  in  beautiful 
relief  before  them.  She  played,  she  sung  to  them — she  loved  them. 
She  was  their  all :  the  "  Eden  bird"  which  formed  their  paradise. 

"  Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  heaven  in  her  eye, 
In  every  gesture  dignity  and  love." 

Her  beauty  and  accomplishments  drew  around  her  many  ad- 
mirers, who  sought  her  hand  in  vain ;  until  a  youth  of  talent 
and  beauty,  by  his  winning  address,  his  fascinations  and  smiles, 
won  her  young  and  trusting  heart,  and  she  vowed  to  be  his.  There 
they  sat  in  that  very  room  by  the  same  grate,  read  by  the  same 
lamp,  where  her  parents  watched  her,  as  she  listened  to  his  voice, 
her  fair  cheek  resting  upon  her  jewelled  hand,  shaded  by  the  rich 
dark  curls  which  clustered  around  her  beautiful  face — watched 
her  as  they  saw  her  turn  her  eyes  with  such  confiding  trustful- 
ness to  his,  as  drew  tears  from  their  own.  Not  that  they  were 
unwilling  she  should  love  him,  but  lest  in  some  future  day  he 
might  wound  the  fair  being  who  clung  thus  fondly  to  him.  Hers 
was  no  common  love  ;  it  was  deep,  fixed,  and  changeless.  He 
left  them  for  the  South,  where  his  parents  resided,  with  the  pro- 
mise of  soon  returning,  when  they  were  to  yield  their  hearts' 


S3  .  THOUGHTS     ON     THE     PAST. 

sweetest  treasure  to  his  embraces.  A  correspondence,  tender,  affec- 
tionate, breathing  love,  picturing  unclouded  days  of  bliss,  became 
less  frequent,  until  it  finally  ceased.  They  saw,  with  deep  regret, 
the  effect  it  produced  upon  their  child.  Their  hearts  ached  with 
intense  anxiety ;  while  they  encouraged,  they  trembled,  nor  were 
their  fears  groundless.  A  report  of  his  marriage  reached  them, 
and  his  perfidy  became  public.  Before  his  acquaintance  with 
Matilda,  he  was  engaged  to  a  young  lady  in  his  native  town,  who 
was  heiress  to  an  immense  property,  which  had  far  more  attrac- 
tions than  her  mind  or  person.  The  beauty  and  arflessness  of 
Matilda  captivated  his  heart,  and  won  his  affection.  He  was 
determined  on  his  return  home  to  break  his  engagement  with  Miss 

E ,  and  marry  Matilda,  whom  he  truly  loved.    Great,  indeed, 

was  his  astonishment  on  his  return  home,  to  find  his  father  deeply 
involved  in  debt,  and  extremely  anxious  for  his  immediate  union 

with  Miss  E .     As  there  was  no  other  possible  way  to  save 

him,  he  yielded  to  his  wish,  and  was  married.  Matilda  gave  no 
credit  to  the  report,  and  believed  him  true,  until  it  could  be  no 
longer  doubted,  for  the  full  conviction  of  his  treachery  flashed 
upon  her,  and  she  fell  senseless  into  her  parents'  arms.  In  vain 
was  their  sympathy-  -in  vain  their  love,  to  heal  the  anguish  of 
her  soul.  For  her  parents'  sake,  she  endeavored  to  be  cheerful, 
and  would  try  to  smile  ;  but  it  was  transient  as  a  sunbeam,  and 
served  only  to  deepen  her  gloom.  No  word  of  reproach  escaped 
her  lips,  no  wish  breathed,  but  for  the  happiness  of  one  who  had 
smiled  but  to  destroy.  Her  parents  beheld  her  fade  away  like  a 
beautiful  flower,  when  too  roughly  visited  by  the  winds  of  heaven. 
The  bright  hectic  flush  upon  her  cheek,  and  increasing  lustre  of 
her  eyes,  revealed  the  fatal  malady  which  was  rioting  within. 
Fainter  and  fainter  grew  each  trembling  step ;  quicker  and  quicker 
each  hurried  breath,  until  upon  her  mother's  bosom  she  closed  her 
lovely  eyes  upon  all  created  things,  and  her  pure  and  trusting 
spirit  took  its  upward  flight. 

Weep  on,  ye  bereaved  ones ;  let  the  tears  gush  forth  from  your 
heart's  full  fountain.  The  finest  chord  of  life  is  touched,  and  well 
may  you  weep.  The  chain  which  bound  you  to  life  is  sundered. 
Look  where  the  treasured  object  of  your  garnered  affections  is  at 
rest ;  where  the  unfaithful  will  wound  no  more,  nor  the  trusting 
heart  be  deceived  by  the  perfidy  of  inconstant  man.  What  has 
the  present  to  do  with  the  past  ?  Yet  how  striking  the  resem- 


THOUGHTS     ON     THE     PAST.  89 

blance !  as  in  a  mirror  we  view  each  living  i'eature,  and  trace 
each  varying  expression.  Time  was — time  is.  The  present  mo- 
ment will  be  sought  for,  but  none  will  find  it!  The  verdant 
grove,  the  balmy  leaf,  the  beautiful  maiden,  which  passed  away 
in  their  own  brief  loveliness — they  will  be  sought,  but  never 
found.  Remembrance  will  sweep  the  chords  of  the  soul,  whose 
echoes  will  die,  when  the  spirit  of  beauty  departs  from  this  world 
for  ever! 


A    SKETCH. 


"  IT  is  a  dreadful  night,"  said  Joseph  Anderson,  to  his  wife,  as 
he  shook  the  snow  from  his  fishing  coat — "  it  is  a  dreadful  night, 


"  God  have  mercy  on  the  poor  sailors,  and  save  them,"  said  his 
wife,  wiping  a  tear  from  her  eye  with  the  corner  of  her  apron. 
"  Oh  !  that  my  poor  William  had  never  left  his  father's  cabin  on 
this  lonely  shore,  for  the.  dangers  of  the  ocean.  For  never  since  he 
left  us  have  I  heard  its  dashing  waves,  but  they  seemed  to  speak 
his  name." 

"  Just  so,"  replied  her  husband  ;  "  and  yet,  when  I  have  been 
fishing  from  the  banks,  when  it  was  clear  and  pleasant,  I  could 
not  blame  him." 

As  he  spoke,  Susan  Ellis  came  in. 

"  I  have  come  over  to  stay  with  you  to-night,"  said  she,  in  a 
plaintive  tone;  "  I  fear  we  are  going  to  have  a  heavy  tempest." 

"  You  are  a  kind,  good  girl,  Susan,"  said  Mrs.  Anderson  ; 
"  and  I  hope  God  will  reward  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  us  this 
lonely  winter." 

"  Ay,"  replied  Joseph,  "  that  he  will ;  and  I  do  hope  our  boy 
will  return  again,  and  make  us  all  happy  once  more." 

"Amen,"  said  the  young  girl,  laying  aside  her  bonnet  and 
cloak,  which  were  wet  with  sleet  and  rain  ;  and  throwing  back  a 
redundance  of  fine  auburn  hair,  displayed  a  face  of  loveliness.  As 
she  drew  near  the  fire,  a  tremendous  gust  of  wind  shook  the  ca- 
bin, and  at  the  same  time  twisted  the  only  tree  which  shaded  it 
in  pieces. 

"  Alack-a-day,"  said  Mrs.  Anderson,  "  what  a  crash  that  was. 
Oh,  my  poor  William  !" 

"  I  thought  of  him,  too,"  said  her  husband  ;  "  dear  me,  how  he 
loved  that  tree." 

Susan  spoke  not,  but  her  heart  died  within  her  at  the  sound  ; 


ASKETCH.  91 

beneath  its  branches  she  had  passed  many  a  pleasant  hour  with 
William  Anderson,  who  was  a  youth,  and  who  loved  his  parents, 
and  the  fair  Susan,  with  all  his  heart.  "  I  will  endeavor  to  make 
my  father  and  mother  more  comfortable,"  thought  he,  "in  their 
old  age  ;  and  as  for  Susan,  she  is  worthy  of  a  better  home.  Well 
as  I  love  her,  I  will  leave  her  for  this  purpose." 

His  parents  expostulated ;  Susan  wept,  but  promised  him  she 
would  come  often  and  see  them  when  he  was  gone.  He  embraced 
his  father  and  mother,  and  received  their  parting  blessing ;  bade 
Susan  good  bye,  and  kissed  her,  promising  to  make  her  his  wed- 
ded wife  when  he  returned. 

"  A  sail  was  seen  this  morning,"  said  Susan. 

"  Who  saw  it  r"  inquired  Joseph. 

"  My  father." 

"  Dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Anderson  ;  "  husband,  did  you  see  it  ?" 

"  T  did,"  said  the  husband,  "  but  did  not  tell  you,  because  a  sail 
always  worries  you  ;  and,  since  the  gale,  I  was  glad  I  ilid  not." 

"  1  am  exceedingly  sorry  I  mentioned  it,"  said  Susan,  observ- 
ing how  deadly  pale  Mrs.  Anderson  looked." 

"Well,"  said  Joseph,  "  since  we  cannot  make  '  one  hair  white 
or  black,'  let  us  get  the  Bible  and  read,  and  try  to  pray." 

Susan  took  the  sacred  Book — it  was  one  William  had  bought, 
and  his  name  was  written  on  the  first  leaf.  She  looked  at  it  for 
some  time. 

"  Ay,  you  are  a  good  girl,  Susan,"  said  Joseph,  "  to  look  for 
some  passage  to  comfort  us." 

She  blushed  and  turned  over  the  leaves,  and  read  the  107th 
Psalm 

"  Let  us  pray,"  said  the  husband.  "  Our  Father,  who  art  in 
Heaven,  oh,  be  our  Father  on  earth  this  dreadful  night,"  prayed 
Joseph  ;  "  hold  these  angry  winds  in  thy  fist,  and  these  raging 
seas  in  the  hollow  of  thy  hand  ;  cause  them  to  be  still,  until  thou 
dost  return  our  dear  son  to  us  again,  if  it  be  thy  will." 

And  the  wind,  which  for  a  moment  had  lulled,  broke  forth 
with  redoubled  fury,  and  Joseph's  cabin  shook  like  a  leaf. 

"  Halloo !"  said  a  voice. 

Dismayed,  they  flew  to  the  door. 

"  Who's  there  ?"  said  Joseph. 

"  Help  !  help  !  for  God's  sake  !"  said  a  voice. 

Joseph  hastened  with  a  light. 


92  ASKETCH. 

"  There  is  a  ship  on  shore,  and  I  am  afraid  that  every  soul  on 
board  has  perished  !  Hasten,  and  we  will  try  to  aid  them.  Go 
back,  young  woman,"  said  he  to  Susan,  "  you  cannot  live  long 
out  of  doors  on  such  a  night  as  this  is." 

The  heavens  were  wrapped  in  gloom,  and  the  clouds  scowled 
as  they  rolled  their  dense  black  folds  together,  which,  as  they 
faintly  parted,  made  the  scene  still  more  appalling.  The  roaring 
of  the  sea  was  awful  as  it  lashed  the  shore  with  tremendous 
surges. 

The  men  proceeded  on  their  way;  Susan  returned  to  the  cabin, 
wrapped  herself  in  a  close  jacket  which  hung  by  the  door,  tied 
her  handkerchief  around  her  head,  and  followed  them.  As  she 
proceeded  toward  the  shore,  the  scene  was  awfully  terrific  :  pre- 
senting to  her  view,5pars,  masts,  and  heavy  planks,  strewed  along 
the  beach,  with  here  and  there  a  dead  body. 

The  men  hallooed  at  a  distance— their  voices  broke  wildly  upon 
her  ear  amid  the  fitful  blast,  and  she  trembled  as  she  gazed  upon 
the  elemental  flood  which  threatened  to  overwhelm  her  with  in- 
evitable destruction.  Following  the  sound  of  their  voices,  she 
discovered  a  number  of  men  busily  engaged  in  rescuing  from  the 
sea  the  senseless  bodies  which  floated  from  the  wreck  ;  over  which 
the  breakers,  with  their  wreaths  of  white  foam,  swelled  and 
broke,  as  if  the  very  waves  were  mad. 

"  Here  is  a  young  man,"  said  one,  clapping  his  hands  to  pre- 
vent their  freezing.  The  wind,  at  the  same  time,  took  his  hat, 
which  whistled  as  it  bore  it  from  him. 

"  Look  ye,  young  woman,"  said  he,  "  seeing  you  would  come, 
look  ye  to  this  poor  body,  that  it  float  not  back  into  the  water 
again,  and  I  will  once  more  see  what  I  can  do,  stiff  as  I  am  with 
cold." 

The  poor  girl  stooped  down  and  turned  the  drenched  body  over, 
wiped  the  sand  from  his  face  with  her  coarse  coat,  and  brushed 
back  his  dripping  hair.     A  parting  cloud  cast  a  gleam  of  light 
upon  his  countenance,  and  discovered,  to  her  astonished  sight,  her 
own  dear  William  !     She  shrieked  aloud,  drew  him  toward  her, 
laid  his  head  upon  her  lap,  put  her  face  to  his,  breathed  on  his 
pale  lips,  bent  over  him  in  agony — then,  looking  up  to  heaven, 
implored  divine  aid.     The  man,  hearing  her  shriek,  returned. 
"  Who  have  you  here  ?" 
As  he  stooped  down,  Joseph  approached. 


A     SKETCH.  yc$ 

"  What,  Susan,  are  you  here  ?  Ah,  you  have  a  good  heart, 
but  who  is  this  you  are  so  busy  with  :  look  up,  Susan,  and  tell 
me  if  you  know  him?  It  must  be  some  one  you  have  seen,  or 
you  would  not  sit  here  shivering  such  a  night  as  this  over  him." 

"  Look  !"  said  the  gentle  girl,  as  she  raised  the  coarse  covering 
from  his  face,. which  she  had  held  close  to  her  beating  heart — 
"  look  here  !" 

The  day  was  faintly  dawning  as  Joseph  stooped  down,  and  in 
the  bitterness  of  his  soul,  exclaimed — 

"  It  is  my  poor  William  !" 

"  Ay,  and  so  it  is,"  said  the  man,  "  and  we  must  try  to  restore 
him  to  life.  Come,  let  us  carry  him  home." 

Susan  went  first  toward  the  cabin  to  prepare  Mrs.  Anderson  for 
the  scene  before  her.  She  met  her  on  the  shore,  and  urged  her  to 
return.  The  men  brought  in  the  cold  and  senseless  body. 

"  Mother,"  said  Susan,  "  it  is  our  poor  William  ;  pray  be  calm 
and  still,  and  he  may  yet  live." 

Poor  Mrs.  Anderson,  pale  as  death,  hung  over  the  apparently 
dead  body  of  her  son,  with  streaming  eyes  and  clasped  hands. 
They  succeeded  in  restoring  him  to  life.  William  once  more 
opened  his  eyes,  and  beheld,  bending  over  him,  those  dearest  to 
him  on  earth. 

The  storm  was  hushed,  and  the  morning  sun  cast  his  bright 
rays  upon  their  humble  dwelling.  The  sea,  spread  out  before 
them,  slumbered  in  calm  security,  and  mirrored  the  bright  scintil- 
lations of  heaven  in  its  pellucid  bosom.  And  in  that  rude  cabin,  on 
that  lonely  shore,  there  were  grateful  hearts  and  true  happiness. 


REFLECTIONS    ON    DEATH. 


WHY  do  we  cling  so  closely  to  this  earth,  when  everything 
around  tells  us  it  is  not  our  home  ?  Why  do  we  love  earthly 
objects  with  such  intensity,  when  we  know  they  are  lent  bless- 
ings, and  are  liable  every  moment  to  be  taken  from  us :  when 
everything  in  nature  warns  us  by  its  decay  of  our  own  mortality  ? 
Why  are  we  so  deaf  to  its  voice  ?  The  trees  of  the  forest,  the 
shrubs  and  flowers,  all  have  a  voice  to  speak,  and  show  us  how 
transient  are  all  earthly  enjoyments ;  how  fleeting  and  vain  are  all 
terrestrial  things.  The  aged  oak,  which  has  towered  for  years, 
and  withstood  the  tempest's  rage,  is  in  an  instant  scathed  by  the 
lightnings  of  heaven  :  its  branches  are  severed,  and  its  trunk  de- 
cays. The  sweetest  flowers  speak  the  loudest — their  beauty  and 
fragrance  charm  us  :  while  we  hold  them,  while  we  admire  them, 
even  in  our  hands,  they  recoil  at  our  touch ;  the  breath  which 
(speaks  their  praises,  withers  their  bloom — they  droop  and  fade, 
while  but  a  moment  in  our  possession.  We  arrange  them  with 
the  nicest  skill ;  we  place  them  in  gilded  vases ;  replenish  them 
with  pure  water ;  touch  them  lightly ;  yet,  with  all  care,  how 
soon  they  die  !  The  leaves  fall  from  the  stalk,  their  loveliness 
departs,  their  beauty  is  withered !  What  a  lesson  !  They  teach 
us  their  choicest  comforts  are  as  the  morning  flowers ;  that  "  the 
spider's  most  attenuated  thread,  is  chord,  is  cable,  to  man's  tender 
tie  on  earthly  bliss."  See  that  lovely  maiden  how  she  trips  along ; 
health  blooms  upon  her  cheek;  joy  sparkles  in  her  eye;  her 
step  is  light  as  the  young  fawn's ;  her  laugh  is  clear  and  plea- 
sant ;  her  voice  is  sweet  as  the  breath  of  morn  ;  her  accents  fall 
upon  the  ear  like  the  mellifluous  sounds  of  the  flute  on  the  pellucid 
bosom  of  the  placid  lake.  The  idol  of  her  parents,  the  delight  of 
their  eyes,  the  joy  of  their  hearts ;  their  looks  follow  her  as  she 
moves,  and  they  seem  to  live  only  in  her  smiles.  Who  would 
mar  such  beauty  ?  Is  there  a  touch  so  rude  ?  Look  again — in  a 


REFLECTIONS     OR     DEATH.  95 

retired  room,  silent  as  the  house  of  death,  a  flickering  light  is  seen ; 
a  form  moves  around  with  steps  as  light  as  the  falling  snow- 
ilakea ;  while  on  a  bed,  beneath  its  white  drapery,  palej  restless, 
emaciated,  lies  this  beauteous  fab:  one.  The  raven  hair  hangs 
loosely  around  her  neck  of  snow,  her  dark  eye  kindles  with  un- 
earthly brightness ;  and  the  hue  of  her  cheek  varies  from  pale  to 
the  deepest  crimson.  A  sepulchral  voice  breaks  the  dreary  si- 
lence. 

"  Mother,  I  am  dying !" 

She  stretches  out  her  transparent  hand— the  father  enters ;  he 
bends  in  agony  over  his  idolized  child ;  the  mother,  cold  as  the 
lovely  form  before  her,  lays  her  face  on  her  beloved  daughter5?, 
kisses  her  marble  brow,  clasps  in  anguish  her  lifeless  hand, 
presses  it  to  her  lips,  to  her  heart — she  bends,  she  weeps,  she 
is  heart-broken  ! 

"  Father*,"  says  the  dying  fair  one,  "  father,  pray ;  mother, 
dear  mother,  we  shall  meet  in  heaven — we  shall  see  our  Saviour." 

Then,  with  a  celestial  smile,  she  looks  upward,  and  hails  the 
messenger,  Death  ! 

Sure,  life  is  like  a  morning  flower, 
Which  blossoms  bright  and  gay ; 

It  lives  and  blooms  but  one  short  hour, 
Before  it  fades  away. 


CONTENTMENT. 


"  WHY  does  not  your  father  return  ?"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn,  as 
she  looked  anxiously  from  the  window,  on  which  the  rain  beat 
violently;  "  what  can  detain  him  from  home  on  such  a  night  as 
this,  when  the  very  elements  seem  to  war  with  each  other  ?" 

"  I  observed  he  was  pale  at  dinner,"  said  Julia. 

"  Did  you  ?"  replied  the  mother,  with  a  deep  sigh ;  "  how  I 
wish  he  would  return." 

Silence  reigned  in  Mrs.  Selwyn's  parlor  for  some  moments, 
when,  rising  abruptly,  Mrs.  Selwyn  ordered  more  coal  on  the 
grate,  and  inquired  of  James  where  his  master  was  ? 

"  I  do  not  know,  madam,"  he  replied ;  "  but  when  he  left 
home,  I  saw  him,  after  looking  around  for  some  time,  take  his 
handkerchief  from  his  pocket,  and  wipe  his  eyes." 

"  Bless  me,  what  can  this  mean  .'  Go,  James,  go  immediately 
to  the  office,  and  see  if  your  master  is  there." 

Agitated  and  alarmed,  Mrs.  Selwyn  walked  to  and  fro  in  her 
princely  room,  whose  magnificence  seemed  to  mock  the  agony  of 
her  soul.  Julia  endeavored  to  calm  her  mother's  feelings  by 
assuring  her  all  was  well,  and  begged  her  to  be  composed. 

"Oh,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn,  "something  unusual  has 
occurred,  I  am  confident,  or  your  father  would  not  absent  himself 
from  his  home  at  this  late  hour,  amid  the  peltings  of  this  pitiless 
storm.  Oh,  if  he  is  but  alive,  and  I  can  once  more  hear  his  cheer- 
ing voice,  I  shall  be  happy." 

"  Look,  mamma,"  said  Julia,  terrified  by  her  mother's  intense 
anxiety,  "  look  at  these  beautiful  prints,  and  the  splendid  orna- 
ments you  so  much  desired." 

"  Not  at  present,"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn,  "  I  could  not  endure  the 
sight  of  them  now.  I  wish  I  had  never  seen  them.  Oh,  my 
husband,  how  willing  would  I  give  them  up,  and  everything  I 
possess,  could  I  once  more  hear  your  welcome  voice." 


CONTENTMENT.  97 

"  Listen,  mamma,"  said  Julia,  scarcely  less  disturbed,  "  they 
are  coming." 

It  was  James. 

"  Where  is  your  master  ?" 

"  I  do  not  know;  I  cannot  find  him  ;  the  office  is  closed,  and 
it  is  now  past  one  o'clock." 

Clasping  her  hands,  Mrs.  Selwyn  would  have  fainted,  but  a 
step  was  heard.  It  was  her  husband — he  entered — she  rushed 
forward  and  threw  herself  into  his  arms,  as  did  Julia.  Mr.  Sel- 
wyn folded  them  both  to  his  beating  heart,  and  then  seated  him- 
self between  them  on  the  sofa. 

"  I  see  I  have  caused  you  both  much  anxiety,  and  am  exceed- 
ingly sorry." 

"  It  is  of  no  consequence  now,"  said  Mrs.  Selwyn,  "  you  are 
here ;  I  see  you,  and  hear  your  voice — it  is  enough." 

"  What  ails  you,  my  dear  father  ?"  said  Julia,  "  you  are  very 
pale  ;  are  you  sick  ?" 

Placing  his  hands  over  his  eyes,  Mr.  Selwyn  sighed  deeply, 
while  his  countenance  betrayed  feelings  of  the  most  intense  nature. 

"  Mr.  Selwyn,"  said  his  wife,  "  I  can  bear  anything  but  this 
eilence  ;  speak,  or  you  will  kill  me." 

"  Can  you  bear  anything,''  said  he,  "  my  love,  but  this  ?  Can 
you  bear  disappointment,  mortification,  poverty,  and  labor  ?  Can 
you  bear  to  hear  me  say  I  am  penniless  ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  his  amiable  companion,  who  now  anticipated  his 
miserable  situation,  "  yes,  my  dear,  I  can.  Nor  shall  you  find  me 
the  weak  woman  you  suppose." 

The  next  day,  Mr.  Selwyn's  property  was  given  up  to  his  cre- 
ditors. When  I  saw  them  last,  they  were  living  in  a  small,  neat 
house,  cheerful  and  happy.  Mrs.  Selwyn  and  Julia  attended  to 
domestic  concerns,  while  Mr.  Selwyn  managed  a  small,  but  ex- 
cellent farm.  I  have  often  visited  them  in  their  days  of  splendor, 
but  never  have  I  seen  them  more  truly  happy. 


THE  LAST  CALL  OF  THE   SABBATH  OF  1842. 


LISTEN  to  the  knell  of  departed  hours !  Listen  to  the  year's 
last  call !  Behold  I  am  passing  away  with  all  my  brightness, 
with  all  my  joys  and  sorrows,  hopes  and  fears.  I  am  winging 
my  way  to  a  vast  unknown,  where  every  event  I  have  witnessed 
will  be  registered.  I  am  going  to  hand  in  my  report  of  Earth's 
scenes,  soon  to  be  closed  for  ever !  One  hour  more,  and  the  seal 
will  be  made  sure,  the  signature  stamped,  and  laid  over  for  the 
great  day  of  account.  I  have  in  my  turn  to  follow  my  sister  years. 
I  have  shielded  you  through  the  cold  blast  of  winter — 1  have 
spread  my  white  ermine  over  the  earth — T  have  formed  for  your 
delight,  fairy  castles  sparkling  with  innumerable  gems.  Silvered 
trees  have  bent  in  the  sunbeams,  emerald  bowers  have  reflected 
their  beauty,  while  each  young  shrub  has  laughed  in  its  fleeting 
splendor.  I  have  locked  the  rivers  and  covered  the  ponds  with  a 
glassy  pavement,  where  the  young  have  bounded  in  their  glee,  and 
passed  some  of  the  brightest  hours  of  their  existence.  I  have 
warmed  the  earth  with  my  gentle  breath,  streams  of  adamant  have 
dissolved,  meandered  sweetly  in  their  silvery  course,  and  ran  de- 
lighted to  the  ocean.  Flowers  have  burst  upon  their  native  shrine, 
and  perfumed  the  air  with  their  fragrance.  The  summer  fruits 
have  been  gathered  in  ;  and  the  husbandman  has  rejoiced,  as  his 
fields,  bending  with  their  golden  store,  have  waved  in  beauty  be- 
fore him.  I  have  appeared  in  majesty  and  glory  on  the  floating 
vapor.  I  have  enrolled  myself  in  darkness,  and  spoken  in  thun- 
der ;  and  by  the  electric  flash  have  purified  the  air  for  your  preser- 
vation. 1  have  rained  gentle  showers  upon  the  earth,  and  clothed 
it  in  a  mantle  of  green,  embossed  with  flowers  and  shrubs  to 
please  the  eye.  I  have  lingered  upon  the  autumnal  cloud,  and 
cast  my  mellowed  light  over  the  landscape.  I  have  dressed  the 
western  sky  in  gorgeous  array,  and  from  evening's  glowing  censer 
thrown  a  flood  of  liquid  light  over  the  world.  I  have  delighted 


THKLASTCALL.  99 

the  eye  of  -the  poet  with  my  varied  hues,  and  brought  to  his  con- 
templative mind  the  songs  of  the  blessed,  as  on  the  floating  clouds 
they  have  bent  in  immortal  beauty  over  redeemed  man.  I  have 
overshadowed  him  with  spirits  of  the  departed,  until  the  myste- 
rious music  of  their  golden  lyres  have  murmured  around  him  at 
the  softened  hour  of  twilight. 

I  am  once  more  on  my  throne  of  ice  The  God  of  storms  is 
marshalling  his  forces.  The  ice-king  is  coming  to  hold  his  revels 
upon  the  tempest — to  sport  with  human  misery  around  the  wi- 
dow's hearth  and  on  the  flowing  deep.  He  chills  the  sailor  boy 
upon  the  shivered  ,mast,  whose  last  thoughts  are  of  home  and 
mother.  I  am  going;  my  speed  is  fleeter  than  the  wind,  swifter 
than  the  weaver's  shuttle  !  I  fly  to  join  unnumbered  years  before 
me.  What  tidings  shall  I  bear  to  Him  who  created  all  things, 
and  bestows  upon  man  every  needed  blessing  ?  What  return, 
oh,  man,  hast  thou  made  for  mercies  received  ?  How  hast  thou 
improved  Sabbath  days  and  sanctuary  privileges  where  the  sceptre 
of  divine  love  has  been  extended  ?  Have  ye  touched  it,  ye  care- 
less ones  ?  For  that  is  all  that  is  required  of  you.  Touch  the 
sceptre,  and  you  are  safe  !  You  shall  live  and  reign  for  ever  and 
ever.  I  am  going.  What  shall  I  say  ?  Will  you  live  ?  One 
short  hour  remains  for  your  decision  !  On  these  moments  of 
time  may  turn  your  everlasting  destiny  !  Shall  1  say  to  the  God 
of  mercy  you  are  thankful  for  his  gifts  ?  Fathers,  are  you  not 
thankful  for  the  preservation  of  your  families  ?  Mothers,  are  you 
grateful  for  your  children's  lives  ?  How  many  hearts  have  been 
wrung ;  how  many  idols  have  been  rent  away ;  how  many  souls 
have  writhed  in  anguish  over  their  cherished  ones,  while  others 
have  enjoyed  uninterrupted  pleasure,  and  drank  freely  from  the 
enchanted  cup !  Remember  all  is  change.  The  brightest  clouds 
are  followed  by  dark  and  impervious  vapors.  Storms  succeed  the 
sunshine.  All  is  fleeting,  evanescent,  baseless !  The  Saviour  is 
pleading — the  hours  are  flying.  He  smiles  upon  you  from  his 
throne  of  mercy.  "  Come,"  he  cries,  "  come  and  revel  in  the 
fullness  of  my  joy.  Come  and  rest  in  the  bowers  of  Paradise." 
Come,  then,  you  young  and  lovely,  come  in  the  spring-tide  of  your 
life.  Come  in  your  beauty,  and  give  your  hearts  to  God. 

Bright  as  the  world  appears,  many  are  its  shadows.  You  will 
need  the  support  of  divine  grace  in  your  hours  of  darkness.  When 
your  bosoms  are  wrung  with  convulsive  sorrow — when  smiles 


100  THE     LAST     CALL. 

depart — when  earth's  love  grows  cold — when  the  averted  eye,  the 
chilling  neglect,  the  bitter  retort  withers  the  soul  and  drinks  up 
the  senses — when  friends  prove  false,  and  pass  away  like  the 
deceitful  brook — when  the  scorching  rays  of  an  arid  sky  shall 
beat  upon  your  defenceless  heads,  amid  the  dreary  desert,  this  cold 
world  may  prove  to  you  that  Jesus  Christ  is  the  green  oasis ;  his 
love,  the  cooling  fountain  ;  his  promises,  your  bowers  of  delight; 
his  spirit,  your  fullness.  You  will  see  the  rivers  of  pleasure,  and 
wander  amid  the  verdant  groves,  where  the  air  is  redolent  with 
ever  blooming  flowers,  and  where  the  birds  of  Paradise  warble 
their  sweetest  notes.  Amid  your  woes  you  will  behold  the  far  off 
land  of  bliss.  Its  songs  will  reach  your  spirit's  depths,  and  buoy 
you  up  through  every  ill.  Hope,  like  a  star  of  beauty,  will  beam 
upon  your  path,  and  light  you  to  the  Eden  above.  I  am  going — 
time  closes — the  shadows  descend — darkness  enwraps  the  uni- 
verse :  what  say  you  ?  A  few  more  sands  remain !  Fainter,  and 
still  more  faintly  they  fall—  decide,  for  the  moon's  disk  is  in  the 
ocean !  Her  brilliance  is  dimmed — her  last  rays  illume  the  moun- 
tain !  They  fade  !  they  die  !  my  missioo  is  closed. 


THE    COUSINS. 


ADELAIDE  MOWBRAY  was  the  only  child  of  wealthy  parents, 
who  hailed  her  birth  as  the  brightest  era  of  their  existence.  Lov- 
ing each  other  with  that  pure  and, holy  affection  which  connects 
kindred  souls,  their  every  wish  centered  in  this  sweet  pledge  of 
their  affections ;  who,  ere  she  attained  her  tenth  year,  was  left  an 
orphan — a  prevailing  disease  having  swept  her  parents  10  the 
grave.  Mrs.  Mowbray's  spirit  was  the  first  to  soar  away  to  a 
brighter  sphere.  She  committed  her  child  to  God,  as  an  unfailing 
friend.  As  she  drew  near  the  final  scene,  Adelaide,  who  but  sel- 
dom left  her,  clung  still  more  closely  to  her  bosom,,  kissed  her  pale 
lips  again  and  again,  as  the  last  mortal  agony  fixed  its  seal  upon, 
her  icy  features.  Mr.  Mowbray,  with  a  heart  overflowing  with 
anguish,  hung  over  his  beloved  wife,  and  supported  her  head 
upon  his  bosom ;  while  his  daughter,  clasping  her  mother's  hand, 
pressed  it  to  her  heart.  Mrs.  Mowbray  gazed  upon  them  with 
intense  affection,  returned  their  love  by  an  agonizing  kiss ;  and 
then,  with  a  hope  full  of  immortality,  welcomed  the  messenger 
of  death. 

Mr.  Cleaveland,  who  was  a  brother  of  Mrs.  Mowbray,  on  re- 
ceiving news  of  her  death,  hastened,  with  Mrs.  C.,  to  their  brother, 
whom  they  found  very  ill ;  and  remained  with  him  until  he  died, 
which  was  only  two  weeks  after  the  death  of  his  wife.  Sensible 
he  could  not  recover,  Mr.  Mowbiay,  tenderly  embracing  Ade- 
laide, committed  her  to  the  care  of  her  uncle  and  aunt ;  requesting 
them  to  bring  her  up,  and  educate  her  with  their  own  children. 
Taking  the  weeping  child  in  their  arms,  they  promised  faithfully 
to  attend  to  his  request,  and  be  a  father  and  a  mother  unto  her. 
Their  hearts  were  touched  by  her  grief,  as  in  anguish  of  soul  she 
clung  to  her  beloved  father ;  nor  could  they  separate  her  from 
him.  Knowing  she  must  be  composed,  or  relinquish  his  hand, 
which  she  grasped  firmly  in  her  own,  with  her  face  resting  upon 


102  THE     COUSINS. 

it,  she  would  sit  by  his  bed-side  and  gaze  upon  him  until  her 
young  heart  was  nigh  bursting,  while  her  only  movement  was 
to  frequently  brush  away  her  gushing  tears. 

She  received  a  lesson  in  the  death  of  her  parents  she  never  for- 
got. She  recollected,  through  her  whole  after  life,  the  chapters 
that  were  read,  and  the  hymns  that  were  sung  around  their  dying 
beds:  and  ere  Adelaide  Mowbray  was  twelve  years  of  age,  she 
was  a  lamb  of  Christ's  fold. 

She  returned  with  her  uncle  and  aunt  to  their  abode,  where  they 
were  welcomed  by  Edwin  and  Emma.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleaveland 
sighed  as  they  saw  the  little  orphan  wipe  away  the  tears  from 
her  eyes,  as  they  embraced  their  children. 

"  Come  here,  my  dear,"  said  Mr.  Cieaveland,  "  these  are  your 
cousins." 

Emma  wound  her  arms  affectionately  around  Adelaide's  neck, 
and  kissed  her. 

"  You  must  love  each  other,"  continued  Mrs.  Cleaveland ; 
"  Adelaide  has  no  parents,  no  brother  or  sister;  you  must  be  very 
kind  to  her — and  remember,  as  an  orphan,  she  has  a  double  claim 
upon  your  affections." 

Adelaide  retired  to  rest,  but  "  tired  nature's  sweet  restorer"  fled 
from  her  eyes,  steeped  with  sorrow's  tears ;  while  her  cousins 
rested  and  slept  in  sweet  tranquillity.  Parents  whom  she  loved 
rushed  upon  her  mind — kind  words,  pleasant  voices,  endearing 
actions,  soft  and  cherished  smiles  stole  over  her,  and  she  wept 
under  their  soul-subduing  influence.  If  she  for  a  moment  be- 
came lost  in  sleep,  she  heard  the  soft  murmuring  of  their  voices, 
and  her  arms  were  extended  to  embrace  them — which  effort  broke 
the  ideal  charm,  and  she  awoke  to  a  perfect  consciousness  of  her 
situation. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Cleaveland  were  untiring  in  their  efforts  to  render 
her  happy ;  nor  was  Adelaide  insensible  to  their  kindness  and 
affection. 

Edwin  Cleaveland,  although  a  youth,  had  the  maturity  of  man- 
hood. He  was  sixteen  years  of  age  when  his  cousin  first  met  his 
eyes.  He  saw  her  in  the  very  bud  of  her  being.  As  the  opening 
rose  becomes  more  lovely  by  morning  dews,  so  were  the  charms 
of  Adelaide  heightened  by  her  falling  tears.  Her  mourning  dress, 
her  white  neck,  her  rich  and  flowing  hair,  her  expressive  eyes, 
ever  moistened  by  sorrow,  even  in  her  gayest  mood,  rendered  her 


THE      COUSINS.  103 

an  object  of  peculiar  interest,  as  if  the  spirits  of  the  departed  were 
present  to  her  view. 

Emma  soon  became  attached  to  her  cousin.  So  much  did  they 
resemble  each  other,  they  were  like  "  a  double  cherry  seeming 
parted,  but  a  union  in  partition."  Mr.  Cleaveland  procured  teach- 
ers of  the  first  respectability  for  the  girls,  who  closely  and  faith- 
fully applied  themselves  to  their  studies.  Theirs  was  no  superfi- 
cial education  :  every  branch  which  they  pursued  was  thoroughly 
understood.  They  were  proficient  in  the  English  and  French 
languages,  skilled  in  music,  fond  of  reading,  fond  of  retirement, 
and  happy  in  themselves.  Their  own  family  circle  formed  their 
world  of  enjoyment.  No  seeds  of  bitterness  sprung  up  among 
them  :  all  was  peace  and  love.  They  mingled  but  little  with  the 
gay  world  :  independent  and  free  from  the  shackles  of  the  fashion- 
able routine  of  cily  life,  they  studied  their  owji  happiness,  and  the 
happiness  of  those  around  them ;  and  their  own  fireside  and  shaded 
arbor  were  to  them  the  brightest  spots  below  the  sky. 

Mr.  Cieaveland's  dwelling  was  situated  on  the  banks  of  a  beau- 
tiful river,  which  wound  its  silvery  way  amid  wooded  hills  and 
valleys.  The  grounds  around  were  laid  out  with  the  nicest  taste, 
exhibiting  the  high  character  of  their  possessor.  The  lawn  was 
clothed  in  nature's  own  dress,  with  here  and  there  a  forest  tree, 
rendered  dear  by  associations,  and  which  shared  equally  in  admi- 
ration with  the  magnolias  which  towered  in  majesty  above  them. 
Flowers  and  shrubs  sparkled  in  the  sunbeams,  while  Adelaide  and 
Emma  presided  over  these  mute  emblems  of  their  Creator.  The 
little  birds,  won  by  their  gentleness  and  love,  warbled  their  sweet- 
est notes,  happy  and  unrestrained  amid  the  branches. 

Edwin  Cleaveland  watched  the  progress  of  his  sister  and  cou- 
sin's minds.  He  was  at  the  University  of  R ,  and  during 

his  vacations  he  devoted  his  leisure  hours  to  them.  The  opening 
charms  of  both  surprised,  while  they  pleased ;  and  he  felt  a 
glowing  delight,  as  he  contrasted  them  with  many  young  ladies 

in  the  city  of  R .  They  were  buoyant  as  the  air,  and  their 

forms  were  light  as  theyoungfawns  of  the  mountain,  when,  with 
disheveled  hair  and  glowing  cheeks,  they  indulged  in  their  favor- 
ite ramble  on  the  river's  banks,  climbing  the  sloping  hills,  and 
reposing  on  the  velvet  sod.  But  in  conversation  they  were  ra- 
tional, sensible,  and  communicative.  So  well  read  were  they  in 
the  English  classics,  they  hesitated  not  in  giving  their  opinion 


104  THE      COUSINS. 

of  different  authors.  They  read  no  works  so  slightly  as  to  be  un- 
able to  judge  of  their  merits  or  defects;  neither  praising  nor  con- 
demning as  the  popular  voice  decided.  This  was  what  he  wished, 
and  approved.  He  furnished  them  with  the  literature  of  the  day, 
and  saw  with  pleasure  their  judicious  selections.  Their  favorite 
retreat  was  a  Gothic  structure  on  the  banks  of  the  river,  at  the 
termination  of  the  lawn,  beneath  the  spreading  branches  of  two 
splendid  magnolias.  The  room  was  large — there  being  but  one — in 
which  was  a  library  of  select  books.  Flowers  of  various  de- 
scriptions ornamented  this  rural  abode.  The  front  of  the  veranda 
was  arched  with  folding  doors  of  Venitian  work  ;  which,  when 
opened,  commanded  a  view  of  the  river  and  the  surrounding 
scenery.  It  was  here  they  loved  to  assemble  ;  it  was  here  that 
poetry  and  music  hallowed  every  feeling  of  their  souls,  and  made 
their  lives  pass  on  in  uninterrupted  happiness. 

At  the  close  of  a  summer  evening,  when  even  nature  herself 
seemed  dressed  in  primeval  loveliness,  Emma  requested  her  bro- 
ther to  read  to  them,  as  they  reclined  beneath  the  curling  vines 
which  wreathed  the  arched  dome. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  "  read  now  our  favorite  pieces." 

Edwin  cheerfully  complied  with  her  request,  and  taking  from 
his  pocket  a  small  book,  inquired  what  she  would  like. 

"  Read  '  Marco  Bozzaris,'  if  you  have  it." 

"  It  is  here,  I  believe,"  said  he.  "  I  always  carry  that,  and  a 
few  other  choice  pieces  with  me,"  smiling  sweetly  on  Adelaide 
as  he  spoke. 

"  Are  they  those  Ady  placed  in  your  pocket-book  ?"  inquired 
Emma,  archly. 

"  Yes,"  replied  he,  opening  it.  "  Here  is  Bryant's  '  Thana- 
topsis'— that  is  a  favorite  piece  of  yours,  I  believe,  Adelaide; 
Hal  leek's  '  Marco  Bozzaris ;'  part  of  Campbell's  '  Vale  of  Wyo- 
ming ;'  '  The  Musician's  Last  Hour,'  by  Park  Benjamin  ;  Long- 
feliow's  '  Voice  of  the  Night ;'  '  David's  Lament  over  Absalom,' 
by  N.  P.  Willis,  and  Irving's  '  Broken  Heart.'  Choice  pieces, 
indeed ;  and  now  we  will  form  a  Lyceum — hem — ladies,  which 
piece  shall  be  the  first  ?" 

"  Speak,"  said  Emma  to  Adelaide,  "  for  I  see  you  are  getting 
quite  sentimental." 

Adelaide  turned  her  soft  blue  eyes  upon  her  cousin,  while  a 
faint  smile  played  over  her  countenance. 


THE     COUSINS.  105 

"  Read  what  you  please,  but  let  the  '  Musician's  Last  Hour'  be 
the  concluding  one." 

"  Then,"  said  Emma,  "  while  it  is  bright,  read  '  Marco  Boz- 
zaris.' " 

Edwin  commenced,  but  the  look  Adelaide  gave  Emma  had 
reached  his  very  soul,  quickening  every  pulsation  of  his  heart. 
Piece  after  piece  he  read,  until,  excited  by  the  irresistible  pathos 
of  the  poems,  his  eyes,  like  the  personification  of  Genius,  kindled 
with  unusual  brightness ;  and  never  had  Adelaide  Mowbray 
known  until  that  hour,  how  closely  her  existence  was  connected 
with  his.  During  the  first  years  they  were  together,  he  won  her 
affections  by  his  tenderness  and  watchful  care;  many  a  falling 
tear  had  he  wiped  away,  and  hushed  many  a  half  suppressed  sob 
and  bursting  sigh,  which  wrun^  her  young  and  tender  heart;  led 
her  forth  among  the  flowers,  plucked  the  fairest  and  dressed  her 
flowing  hair  with  wreaths  his  own  hands  had  formed ;  fed  the 
canary,  and  listened  with  pleasure  to  its  reiterated  notes;  wooed 
the  ring-dove  to  their  hands,  and  listened  to  its  shrill.coos  as  they 
caressed  it.  These  attentions  won  her  friendship  and  her  affec- 
tions ;  she  sighed  when  he  was  absent ;  but  never,  never  until 
this  hour,  did  she  know  how  dearly  she  loved  him.  While  read- 
ing the  pieces  mentioned,  the  spirit  of  them  took  such  full  pos- 
session of  their  hearts,  that  the  very  air  seemed  impregnated  with 
the  witching  strains  of  poetry  ;  and  the  breeze,  as  it  gently  moved 
the  branches  of  the  magnolias,  chimed  a  dulcet  note  to  every  awak- 
ening and  soul-subduing  measure.  The  spirits  of  the  brave,  the 
dead  and  dying,  overshadowed  them,  as  they  sat  rapt  and  in- 
spired beneath  the  melting  influence  of  exalted  minds. 

"  Do  not  read  the  '  Broken  Heart,'  Edwin,"  said  Adelaide.  "  I 
cannot  bear  it  now." 

"  No,"  said  Emma,  "  do  not  read  it,  I  beg  of  you.  I  confess  I 
am  all  poetry  myself,  and  shall  fly  away,  if  a  little  more  excited, 
upon  some  floating  zephyr." 

"  Shall  I  read  the  '  Musician's  Last  Hour  ?' "  said  Edwin,  as  he 
gazed  upon  Adelaide,  who  sat  with  her  head  resting  upon  her 
cousin's  bosom,  whose  arm  was  wound  around  her  neck. 

"  Yes,"  said  Adelaide,  "  for  see,  the  sun's  last  rays  are  de- 
parting." 

As  Edwin  gazed  upon  her,  he  felt  as  his  sister  did  when  she 
gaid  she  was  all  poetry:  he  felt  as  if  he  could  have  gazed,  end 


106  THK     COUSINS. 

gazed  for  ever,  on  the  two  beautiful  beings  before  him.  "  'Where 
shall  the  pure  and  lovely  rest  ?' "  said  he. 

"  Proceed,"  said  Adelaide. 

•Never  was  that  inimitable  sketch  read  with  more  feeling  than 
in  that  hour.  The  air  seemed  rife  with  the  harp's  last  echoes, 
and  the  fire  and  enthusiasm  of  the  dying  musician,  as  his  daugh- 
ter swept  the  chords,  flushed  their  beating  hearts  with  the  same 
glowing  flame. 

"  Let  us  return,"  said  Adelaide.  "  Oh,  lead  us  home.  What  a 
scene  is  this !  Methinks  I  hear  the  dying  away  of  distant  music, 
like  the  soul's  last  echo  !  Oh,  the  sun  is  setting,  unobscured  by  a 
single  ckmd.  Now — now  he  sinks — is  gone  !  So  die  the  right- 
eous— so  let  me  die  ?" 

"  Talk  not  of  dying,  dear  Adelaide,"  said  Emma ;  "  but  really, 
brother,  you  must  not  let  me  see  that  pocket-book  again  while  you 
are  home. 

"  What  shall  we  name  this  spot  ?"  said  Edwin. 

"  This  fatal  spot,"  said  Emma,  as  she  saw  the  blush  which 
mantled  the  cheeks  of  her  brother  and  cousin. 

"  It  has  three  names  already,"  said  Edwin.  "  When  I  am 
gone,  and  you  here  gaze  upon  this  beauteous  landscape,  will 
you  think  of  the  one,  who,  with  you,  so  richly  enjoyed  this  ban- 
quet of  soul,  this  never  to  be  forgotten  hour  ?" 

Alone  in  her  chamber,  Adelaide  mused  upon  her  feelings  dur- 
ing the  past  hour.  "  He  will  leave  us  soon,  and  how  lonely  we 
shall  be.  Oh,  my  parents,  my  beloved  parents,  were  you  but  here 
to  guide  and  direct  me.  But  I  will  look  to  One,  even  my  Father 
in  heaven,  and  pray  for  wisdom.  There  was  something  in  that 
setting  sun  that  had  a  voice  which  whispered,  '  so  die  the  right- 
eous,' when  my  heart  responded — '  so  let  me  die.' "  She  took  the 
sacred  volume,  and  opened  to  her  favorite  psalm.  "  Best  of  books," 
cried  she,  "  while  mortals'  writings  pain  me  by  their  exquisite 
power,  these  calm  and  delight  me  by  their  beautiful  influence. 
Both  I  love — but  oh !  how  different  the  effects  which  they  pro- 
duce." 

Calm  and  composed  by  communion  with  her  Maker,  she  sunk 
to  repose  ;  nor  awaked  until  Emma,  kissing  her  forehead,  beauti- 
ful as  a  Madonna's,  softly  whispered,  "  Dear  Adelaide,  come,  we 
have  an  invitation  to  spend  the  day  with  the  Misses  Morton  ; 
they  have  company  from  New  York,  and  wish  for  our  fair  selves 


THE     COUSINS.  107 

to  help  to  form  a  constellation,  whose  brilliance  shall  dazzle  even 
the  widower,  their  father." 

When  Adelaide  appeared,  there  was  indeed  a  smile  upon  her 
face,  like  a  sunset  glow,  which  lights  up  every  surrounding  object, 
while  a  roseate  flush  covered  her  face. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  her  aunt,  approaching  her,  "  did  you 
feel  fatigued  with  your  walk  last  evening?  Have  you  rested 
well  ?"  and  leading  her  to  a  sofa,  she  threw  her  arm  around  her 
beautiful  niece,  and  drew  her  closely  to  her  affectionate  bosom. 
Mrs.  Cleaveland  was  one  of  those  mothers  who  live  their  lives 
over  in  their  children.  She  was  the  confident  of  each  one,  and 
knew  the  avenues  to  their  young  hearts.  She  had  heard  from 
Edwin  of  the  last  evening's  scene :  she  loved  her  niece,  and  what 
more  could  a  fond  mother  wish,  than  to  know  that  all  around  her 
were  happy. 

"  My  dear  cousin,"  said  Emma,  "are  you  ready  for  our  visit  ?" 

Adelaide  would  rather  have  remained  at  home,  and  expressed 
her  wish  to  stay. 

"  Why,  my  dear,"  said  Mrs.  Cleaveland,  "  you  are  not  afraid 
to  meet  these  city  ladies,  are  you  ?" 

"  No,  not  exactly  afraid,  my  dear  aunt,  but  I  had  rather  remain 
with  you." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Emma,  "  I  insist  upon  your  going  :  there  is 
just  enough  poetry  remaining  in  you  to  render  you  enchanting ; 
and  as  for  myself,  I  shall  be  a  looker  on.  But  go  I  certainly  shall, 
and  see  who  the  gay  ladies  are ;  perhaps  there  is  a  beau  among 
them  for  me.  What  say  you,  my  fair  cousin  ?" 

"  I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Adelaide. 

Edwin  had  not  spoken  ;  he  hardly  knew  whether  he  wished  her 
to  go  or  not.  But  when  he  saw  how  willingly  she  yielded  to  his 
sister's  request,  he  banished  self  from  his  own  heart,  and  hast- 
ened to  accompany  them. 

The  cousins  were  met  at  the  door  by  Frances  and  Elizabeth 
Morton — two  sweet,  blooming  girls — the  only  children  of  the  Hon. 
E.  Morton  of  R — — .  Their  mother  died  when  they  were  young ; 
and  they  were  the  idols  of  their  father's  heart.  They  received 
their  visiters  with  much  pleasure,  and  hastened  to  introduce  them 
to  their  friends.  The  drawing-room  was  rilled  with  gentlemen 
and  ladies,  who  chatted  incessantly  about  "  Fanny  Elssler,"  "Mr. 
Slick's  Letters,"  "  Prince  de  Joineville,"  &c.,  until  dinner  was  an- 


108  THE      COUSINS. 

nounced,  paying  but  little  attention  to  the  cousins.  At  the  table 
the  conversation  turned  upon  general  subjects.  Mr.  Morton  was 
a  member  of  Congress,  possessed  of  a  highly  cultivated  mind, 
affable  and  agreeable  in  his  address,  attentive  to  all,  particularly 
to  Adelaide  and  her  cousin.  He  by  degrees  drew  them  forth  in 
conversation ;  the  readiness  and  tact  they  manifested  in  their  quick 
replies,  their  prompt  and  decided  answers,  their  unrestrained  man- 
ners, their  gracefulness  and  ease,  their  beauty  and  intelligence, 
produced  a  spell,  which,  unconsciously  to  themselves,  wound 
itself  around  every  heart.  While  some  admired,  others  envied; 
and  even  the  orphan  Adelaide,  the  child  of  tears,  became  the  ob- 
ject of  vituperation  and  scorn. 

"  I  wonder,"  said  Miss  Mountford,  to  a  gentleman  sitting  near 
her,  "  who  these  two  little  importants  are  ?" 

The  gentleman  seeing  her  object,  and  knowing  from  whence  it 
came,  replied, 

"  I  do  not  know.  I  had  no  idea  of  finding  such  beauty  and 
talent  in  so  secluded  a  place  as  this." 

"  Beauty  and  talent !     Do  you  think  them  handsome  ?" 

"  I  do,"  he  replied  ;  "  with  the  exception  of  your  fair  self,  be- 
yond anything  I  have  lately,  if  ever,  met  with." 

"  I  dislike  very  much  to  see  country  girls  put  on  su;h  airs ;  to 
me  they  are  always  disgusting." 

"  True  merit,"  replied  Mr.  Vernon,  "  is  often  concealed.  The 
poet  spoke  true  when  he  said — 

'  Full  many  a  flower  is  born  to  blush  unseen.'  " 

Miss  Mountford  bit  her  lip  with  vexation  as  Mr.  Vernon 
turned  away. 

Mr.  Morton  led  the  way  to  the  music  room,  and  all  followed 
him. 

"  Now,  ladies,"  said  he,  "  for  the  melting  strains  of  Orpheus — 
such  as  shall  indeed  soothe  the  savage  breast,  soften  rocks,  and 
bend  the  knotted  oaks." 

The  Misses  Mountford  exulted  in  the  victory  they  anticipated, 
and  with  apparent  pleasure  suffered  themselves  to  be  led  to  the 
piano.  They  had  no  idea  the  cousins  understood  music,  and 
played  with  manifest  consciousness  of  their  superior  powers. 
They  were  a  long  time  selecting  their  pieces,  but  their  taste  was 
not  calculated  to  please.  Edwin  looked  at  the  girls,  but  he 


THK     COUSINS.  109 

trembled  not— conscious  pride  sustained  him,  for  he  knew  their 
powers.  When  the  Misses  Mountford  finished,  or  rather  stopped, 
with  the  idea  of  being  urged  to  play  longer,  Frances  Morton 
asked  Emma  to  play.  Mr.  Vernon,  the  gentleman  who  had  been 
conversing  with  Miss  Mountford,  led  Emma  to-  the  piano,  and 
while  he  hoped,  he  trembled  for  the  lovely  girl.  Seating  herself 
with  much  composure,  she  turned  over  but  one  leaf  when  a  fa- 
vorite piece  met  her  eye.  How  he  was  pleased,  on  her  being 
asked  to  sing,  to  see  her  commence  without  fear ;  and  listened 
with  delight  to  her  voice,  which,  while  it  enraptured,  enchained 
his  heart.  She  arose  covered  with  blushes,  and  Mr.  Vernon 
led  her  to  the  sofa  where  her  cousin  was  sitting.  Mr.  Morton, 
approaching  Adelaide,  said, 

"  Will  you  permit  me,  Miss  Mowbray,  to  conduct  you  to  the 
piano  ?" 

Adelaide  looked  up  as  if  to  say,  excuse  me,  when  she  met  the 
encouraging  eye  of  Edwin,  who,  with  a  sweet  smile,  beckoned 
her  to  come.  She  arose  with  dignity,  and  seating  herself,  Edwin 
turned  to  their  favorite  piece,  "  I  would  not  live  alway ;"  and  as 
he  pressed  the  leaf  down  with  his  hand  he  at  the  same  time 
pressed  hers,  which  was  under  it,  as  if  to  say,  fear  nothing. 
They  both  overheard  the  remarks  made  by  Miss  Mountford,  and 
he  was  anxious  she  should  see  what  "  the  little  important"  could 
do.  At  first  her  voice  was  weak  and  tremulous,  but  on  recollect- 
ing the  remark,  she  exerted  herself;  and  her  clear,  rich  voice  rose 
and  fell  in  impassioned  strains  with  the  instrument,  which  seemed 
to  feel  the  electric  touch  of  her  taper  fingers,  as  they  flew  over, 
rather  than  touched  the  keys.  Not  with  her  strength  did  she 
play,  not  mechanically,  but  her  whole  soul  was  in  requisition  ; 
for  both  Edwin's  and  Mr.  Vernon's  voice  mingled  with  heir's ;  and 
BO  forcible,  so  touching  were  her  strains — so  imbued  had  she 
become  with  the  spirit  of  the  words  she  was  singing,  that  she 
seemed  to  have  forgotten  all  else  till  she  had  finished  them.  Loud 
was  the  applause  as  she  arose  ;  but  she  displayed  no  vanity,  fox 
she  felt  none. 

"  I  dare  say  she  is  some  poor  clergyman's  daughter,"  said  Mies 
Mountford  to  Mr.  Williams,  a  young  lawyer  present,  "  and  this 
is  all  done  for  effect." 

"  And  what  an  effect  it  has  produced,"  he  replied  -with  em- 
phasis. 


,-<m 

110  THE     COUSINS. 

As  Miss  M.  was  turning  over  some  plates  which  lay  upon  the 
centre  table,  she  covered  her  eyes  with  her  hands  as  she  caught 
Mr.  Vernon  looking  steadily  upon  her.  He  was  a  young  gentle- 
man whose  friendship  she  prized  above  all  others,  and  whom  she 
had  for  a  long  time  hoped  to  have  ranked  in  the  list  of  her  admi- 
rers. But  he  was  a  person  of  too  much  good  sense  to  be  duped 
by  the  artifice  of  an  envious  woman.  He  had  heard  from  the 
Misses  Morton  a  glowing  description  of  the  fair  cousins  whom  he 
had  admired.  He  had  long  been  in  the  fashionable  world,  and, 
tired  of  its  empty  show  and  parade,  was  really  "  in  search  of  a 
wife" — one  who  would  make  his  home  pleasant,  mingle  in  his 
feelings,  and  manage  his  affairs  with  discretion  ;  whose  mind  as 
well  as  person  was  adorned  with  every  necessary  grace.  Emma 
Cleaveland  was  one  with  whom  he  thought  he  could  be  happy. 

The  next  day,  as  he  was  walking  with  Mr.  Morton,  he  in- 
quired of  him  concerning  the  cousins.  Mr.  Morton  spoke  in  the 
highest  terms  of  Mr.  Cleaveland ;  and  observed,  as  they  were 
near  his  dwelling,  they  would  call  upon  them.  They  were  re- 
ceived with  much  politeness  by  the  family,  and  after  spending  an 
hour  very  pleasantly,  they  returned. 

"  You  see,"  said  Mr.  Morton,  "  what  an  excellent  mother  and 
aunt  these  young  ladies  are  blest  with.  Mrs.  Cleaveland  is  a 
woman  of  excellent  mind,  good  taste,  and  sound  judgment.  She 
manages  her  household  affairs  herself ;  and  in  addition  to  the  young 
ladies'  other  accomplishments,  they  are  excellent  housewives." 

Man)  inquiries  were  made  on  their  return,  much  to  the  chagrin 
and  mortification  of  the  Misses  Mountford,  who  were  surprised  to 
hear  of  Miss  Mowbray's  wealth.  Frances  and  Elizabeth  Morton 
were  sincerely  attached  to  the  cousins,  and  when  they  saw  how 
certainly  envy  would  punish  itself,  they  learned  a  lesson  they 
ever  afterwards  remembered. 

Edwin  Cleaveland  and  Charles  Vernon  were  kindred  souls:  a 
friendship  which  was  never  broken  commenced  with  their  first  in- 
terview, ft  had  long  been  Edwin's  determination  to  visit  Europe. 
Charles  Vernon  concluded  to  go  with  him.  The  morning  they 
left,  the  vows  of  both  parties  were  plighted,  and  they  parted  with 
the  pleasing  anticipation  of  being  united  on  their  return. 

It  was  in  April  when  they  left;  Adelaide  and  Emma,  like  the 
fitful  month,  were  sunshine  and  tears,  as  they  dwelt  upon  those 
hours  which  preceded  their  departure.  Like  the  roses  of  summer, 


THE     COTSINS.  til 

they  bloomed  in  their  native  vale,  lovelier  for  their  retirement. 
Although  the  cousins  loved  each  other  from  their  first  interview, 
ties  of  a  holier  nature  now  bound  them  more  firmly  together. 
Their  eyes  were  the  index  of  their  minds,  and  they  read  each 
other's  souls  by  intuition.  They  walked,  read,  and  sung  together. 
How  many  would  have  given  thousands  for  their  unrivalled  skill 
in  music,  which,  like  the  rose  in  the  desert,  often  wafted  its 
sweetness  over  their  own  happy  souls  when  alone.  From  one 
altar  arose  their  hearts'  pure  incense;  for  they  both  knew  and 
realized  the  sources  of  all  their  enjoyments.  Both  clung  to  the 
same  promises,  while  their  prayers  and  thanksgivings  blended  to- 
gether. And  never  were  more  fervent  petitions  offered  up  for  a 
friend  and  brother,  than  arose  from  the  lips  o*  these  fair  cousins. 

One  evening,  as  they  with  their  parents  were  seated  around  the 
centre  table,  all  looking  over  the  numerous  publications  just 
handed  in,  Adelaide's  attention  was  arrested  by  an  article  which 
met  her  eye.  Hardly  conscious  of  what  she  did,  she  touched 
Emma's  hand,  which  hung  over  her  shoulder,  and  pointed  to  the 
place.  A  mist  seemed  to  blind  her,  as  she  motioned  to  her  cousin 
to  read  what  she  could  not. 

"  What  have  you  found,  my  children  ?"  said  Mr.  Cleaveland, 
seeing  their  agitation,  his  own  countenance  expressive  of  deep 
emotion. 

Emma  handed  the  paper  to  her  father,  who  read  aloud  the  sup- 
posed loss  of  the  President,  in  which  ill-fated  vessel  it  had  been 
the  intention  of  the  two  Iriends  to  sail ;  or,  if  disappointed  in  this 
respect,  in  one  of  the  regular  sailing  packets — the  New  York, 

"  Did  Edwin  surely  sail  in  that  ship  ?"  inquired  Mrs.  Cleaveland, 

"  I  cannot  really  say,"  replied  her  husband  ;  "  do  you  know, 
girls,  in  which  packet  he  sailed  ?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Emma,  "  it  was  in  the  New  York." 

"Do  you  know,  my  dear  Adelaide?"  tenderly  inquired  her 
uncle,  seeing  her  extreme  nervousness. 

"Indeed  I  do  not;  but  I  think  the  President.  Edwin  thought 
he  should  go  in  her." 

"I  think  so  too,"  replied  Mr.  Cleaveland.  "But  this  may  be 
only  a  rumor ;  I  presume  she  is  safe ;  she  is  a  noble  ship — strong, 
well  manned,  and  faithfully  proved." 

"  What  is  proof,  my  dear  uncle,  against  winds  and  waves  ?" 
said  Adelaide. 


112  THE      COUSINS. 

"  God  holds  them  in  his  fist,  my  beloved  one,"  said  her  aunt ; 
"  cheer  up,  my  child,  I  feel  they  are  safe  ;"  while  the  falling  tear 
she  endeavored  in  vain  to  conceal,  told  a  different  tale.  But  Mrs. 
Cleaveland  did  feel  her  heart  comforted  by  her  knowledge  of  a 
supreme  power ;  and  there  was  something  in  her  own  soul  which 
cheered  her  darkness,  and  illuminated  every  hour  of  gloom. 

Time  passed  on ;  but  no  further  tidings  came.  All  was  anx- 
iety— all  was  still ;  the  sun  shone  in  vain,  the  flowers  opened  and 
died  unheeded,  the  canary's  notes  no  longer  delighted,  and  the 
music  ceased.  Close  doors,  constant  examination  and  prayer, 
were  the  daily  scenes  of  that  once  cheerful  abode. 

Mr.  Cleaveland  went  directly  to  New  York,  where  he  found  the 
names  of  his  son  and  Mr.  Vernon  entered  as  usual  for  the  Presi- 
dent; but  upon  further  inquiry  he  found  that  they  were  also  en» 
tered  for  the  New  York.  It  appeared  that,  from  some  unknown 
circumstance,  they  had  changed  their  minds  in  respect  to  the  Pre- 
sident ;  and,  owing  to  the  hurry  and  bustle  of  the  moment,  it  was 
left  undetermined  in  which  vessel  they  sailed.  Notwithstanding 
this  unsatisfactory  intelligence,  and  although  darkness  had  shroud- 
ed their  horizon,  hope,  like  a  star  of  beauty,  gleamed  faintly  in 
the  distance.  Emma  indeed  felt,  but,  like  her  mother,  she  did  not 
despair.  She  seemed  impressed  with  the  idea  of  their  safety. 

Not  so  Adelaide.  "  From  my  childhood's  hour,"  said  she  to 
Emma,  as  she  wiped  away  the  falling  tears,  "  have  I  been  the  vic- 
tim of  sorrow  and  disappointment !  What  did  I  ever  love  but  was 
sure  to  fade  and  die  ?  Come,  let  us  go  to  the  consecrated  spot 
where  Edwin  told  us  to  remember  him  ;  for  oh !  I  feel  we  shall 
never  meet  again." 

"  Dear  Adelaide,"  said  Emma,  "  you  had  better  not ;  your  eye 
is  sunken,  your  cheek  is  pale,  and  you  are  unwell." 

"  Perfectly  well,"  replied  Adelaide.  "  Pray  accompany  me ;  if 
not,  I  shall  go  alone  " 

Emma  looked  at  her  mother. 

"  Go,  my  love,"  said  Mrs.  Cleaveland,  "  go  with  your  cousin, 
but  do  not  stay ;"  and  kissing  them  both,  she  returned  to  her 
chamber  to  weep. 

Neither  of  the  cousins  spoke  until  they  reached  the  beautiful, 
the  charming,  the  consecrated  spot.  Adelaide  threw  back  her  bon- 
net; her  hair,  escaping  at  the  same  time  from  its  confinement, 
hung  in  loose  curls  around  her  beautiful  neck,  and  her  counte- 


THE     COUSINS.  113 

nance  beamed  with  mingled  emotion,  as  she  exclaimed  with  enthu- 
siasm, 

"  Look,  my  Emma,  that  is  the  same  glorious  sunset  as  on  the 
evening  when  Edwin  read  to  us  ;  look,  my  cousin,  see  the  gor- 
geous hues  of  the  western  sky ;  see  the  shadows  upon  the  moun- 
tains— just  so,  when  he  read  Bryant's  '  Thanatopsis ;'  when  we 
could  almost  see,  in  the  varying  colors,  man's  constant  changes 
Remember  you  not  the  kindling  up  of  his  eye,  the  swelling  of  his 
breast,  as  he  read  the  concluding  sentence — '  Hast  thou  followed 
in  the  caravan,  my  love,  my  love?'"  she  exclaimed;  "hast  thou 
indeed  wrapped  thy  mantle  around  thee  and  laid  down  to  soft  and 
pleasant  dreams  ?" 

Emma  did  not  interrupt  her  :  she  gazed  upon  her  like  an  angel 
of  light ;  she  saw  an  unearthly  lustre  enkindling  her  countenance, 
and  her  heart  drank  in  the  spirit  of  her  dream,  and  mingled  in  her 
aspirations.  Stretching  out  her  beautiful  hands,  as  the  sun  sank 
beneath  the  horizon,  she  cried — "  So  die  the  righteous !  was  I  not 
right?  Edwin,  in  your  last  hour  remembered  you  not  your  Ade- 
laide ?  Thought  you  not  of  this  hallowed  spot  ?  But  we  shall 
meet  again — ryes,  in  the  spirit  land,  where  all  is  bright,  and  no 
earthly  mixture  comes  : 

'  There  we  shall  meet  as  heretofore, 
On  that  unknown  and  silent  shore.'  " 

She  stood  gazing  upon  the  scene  for  a  moment,  when  sh.e  ex- 
claimed, "  Who  brought  the  harp  to  thee  ?  What  were  the  notes 
which  fell  upon  thy  ear  ?  Not  thy  Adelaide's  or  thy  Emma's 
voice,  like  Ella's,  soothed  thy  last  hours:  the  wind-god  swept  the 
strings,  while  ocean's  depths  sent  back  its  echoes ;  and  thy  blest 
soul  in  the  mysterious  music  soared  to  its  native  heaven  ?" 

"  Adelaide,  my  dear  Adelaide,  let  us  return,"  said  Emma,  over- 
come by  her  emotions. 

Adelaide  spoke  not ;  she  was  still,  calm,  and  beautiful.  "Her 
enthusiasm  had  ceased,  her  soul  had  wasted  its  energies,  scarcely 
a  pulse  moved  the  mysterious  mechanism  of  her  heart ;  when, 
casting  a  hurried  glance  on  all  around,  she  gathered  her  veil  about 
her  neck,  and  Emma  put  on  her  bonnet,  and,  without  speaking, 
returned  home.  Mr.  and  Mrs  Cleaveland  met  them,  and  were 
both  struck  with  their  appearance.  Emma  had  been  weeping, 
and  her  face  was  flushed.  Adelaide  was  pale  and  cold  as  marble  ; 
and  ere  they  reached  the  house,  almost  as  senseless.  Mr.  Cleave- 


114  THE     COUSINS. 

land  raised  her  in  his  arms,  and  bore  his  lovely  burthen  home.  A 
physician  was  sent  for ;  her  aunt  and  Emma  watched  with  her 
through  the  night;  a  burning  fever  was  upon  her,  and  for  many 
days  her  life  quivered  upon  a  single  point.  Frances  and  Eliza- 
beth Morton  were  continually  with  her,  assisting  in  administering 
to  her  wants.  Her  youth  and  constitution  prevailed  over  the  dis- 
ease; and,  as  consciousness  returned,  the  first  object  she  saw  was 
her  aunt  hanging  over  her — who,  kissing  her  affectionately,  whis- 
pered, "  be  composed,  my  child,  all  is  well." 

All  was  well;  for  while  Mrs.  Cleaveland  and  Emma  hung  over 
Adelaide's  bed,  listening  to  her  wild  and  incoherent  murmurings, 
which  were  stilled  only  by  the  repetition  of  some  sweet  promises 
from  God's  holy  word,  or  some  treasured  hymn — while  Mr. 
Cleaveland  was  walking  the  room  almost  in  a  state  of  distraction, 
the  post-boy,  ever  a  welcome  guest,  entered  with  letters,  giving 
him  ihe  pleasing  intelligence  of  Edwin's  and  Mr.  Vernon's  safety. 
They  were  in  Boston — arrived  in  the  Caledonia,  from  Liverpool; 
and  would,  after  spending  a  few  days  in  New  York,  return  home. 
Mr.  Cleaveland  stood  like  one  amazed ;  he  was  transfixed ;  he 
spoke  not — stirred  not,  until  a  servant  inquired  if  he  would  have 
a  chair.  Awakening  from  a  reality  of  brightness,  which  he  fan- 
cied still  a  vision,  he  sought  Mrs.  Cleaveland,  and  communicated 
the  cheering  news. 

"God  be  praised!"  she  exclaimed.  "  Oh,  my  children — my 
children — my  children,  how  have  I  felt  for  you  !  How  have  I 
died  and  revived  under  your  smiles  and  tears." 

"  How  is  Adelaide  ?"  inquired  Mr.  Cleaveland. 

"No  better-— wild  and  restless;  continually  murmuring  some 
melting  expression.  I  have,  as  I  watched  her  through  the  night, 
thought  there  was  a  slight  change  foi  the  better,  but  I  dare  not 
hope.  I  will  go  to  her  immediately,  and  send  Emma  to  you." 

Mrs.  Cleaveland  entered  Adelaide's  chamber  as  she  opened  her 
eyes  from  a  peaceful  slumber  of  half  an  hour,  with  Emma's  cheek 
laid  down  to  her's,  who  herself  was  sleeping  when  her  mother 
entered;  kiseing  Adelaide,  she  softly  whispered,  "All  is  well: 
be  quiet,  my  child — here  is  Emma — close  your  eyes  again,  my 
love,  while  I  watch  you  both." 

Weak  and  feeble,  Adelaide  faintly  smiled,  and  turning  her  face 
nearer  to  her  beloved  cousin,  gently  lell  asleep.  Mrs.  Cleaveland's 
heart  beat  with  fearful  rapidity — her  frame  seemed  panting  with 


THE     COUSINS.  113 

excess  of  joy.  If  ever  mortal  tasted  of  an  unmingled  cup  of  bliss, 
Mrs.  Cleaveland  did,  as  she  gazed  upon  those  lovely  children  of  her 
heart's  deep  affection — knowing  those  they  loved  best  on  earth, 
for  whom  their  every  prayer  was  breathed,  were  safe— her  Edwin 
well — perhaps  on  his  way  home.  A  ray  of  light  beamed  in  her 
countenance  when  the  cousins  awoke  together,  and  Adelaide  gave 
evidence  of  her  return  to  consciousness.  Emma,  scarcely  know- 
ing whether  she  was  asleep  or  awake,  gazed  first  upon  her  mo- 
ther and  then  upon  Adelaide  ;  the  wildness  of  whose  eyes  had  fled, 
while  a  lustrous  softness  remained,  as  she  closed  her  long  silken 
lashes,  and  a  tear  trickled  down  her  cheek.  Mrs.  Cleaveland 
brought  her  some  nourishment.  She  partook  of  it  and  motioned 
for  more,  saying,  "  This  is  good,  my  dear  aunt." 

Frances  Morton  took  her  seat  by  the  bed-side,  as  Mrs.  Cleave- 
land and  Emma  withdrew — Emma,  that  she  might  yield  to  the 
joy  of  grief;  Mrs.  Cleaveland,  that  she  might  tell  her  child  the 
pleasing  news  of  her  brother's  and  lover's  safety. 

"  Weep  not,  my  Emma,"  said  Mrs.  Cleaveland,  as  the  lovely 
girl,  in  the  fullness  of  her  soul,  shed  the  gushing  tears  of  gratitude. 

"  Oh,  let  me  weep,  my  mother  !  these  are  delicious  tears.  She 
lives  !  she  knows  me,  and  I  am  contented." 

"  Emma,  my  child,  be  composed;  there  is  great  bliss  in  store 
for  you,"  and  taking  her  in  her  arms,  she  unfolded  the  pleasing 
tale.  Emma  sobbed  aloud  upon  her  mother's  bosom,  and  their 
tears  mingled  as  they  fell. 

"  Let  us  go  to  our  beloved  Adelaide,"  said  Emma. 

"  Be  sure  you  do  not  say  one  word,  my  child  ;  the  least  excite- 
ment would  injure,  if  not  destroy  her." 

When  Mrs.  Cleaveland  and  Emma  entered,  Frances  Morton  was 
conversing  in  a  low  tone  with  Adelaide,  whose  hand  was  clasped 
in  her's. 

'•  My  dear  aunt,"  said  Adelaide,  "  have  I  been  dreaming ?" 

"  If  you  have,  it  is  sufficient  you  are  now  awake ;  be  still  and 
quiet,  and  in  a  few  days  you  may  talk  with  us,  and  sit  up  a  little." 

"May  I,  dear  aunt?"  she  replied,  when  a  shade  passed  over 
her  beautiful  features,  as  a  fleecy  cloud  passes  over  the  face  of 
the  sun,  concealing  for  a  moment  the  resplendent  beams.  Mrs. 
Cleaveland  understood  the  cause,  and  motioning  for  the  girls  to 
withdraw,  she  sweetly  soothed  her  lovely  niece  by  telling  her 
who  ruled  and  reigned. 


Two  weeks  had  passed  from  the  day  Adelaide  awoke  from  her 
fearful  delirium.  As  she  from  day  to  day  regained  her  strength, 
she  saw  a  smile  so  sweet  resting  upon  the  countenance  of  her 
uncle,  aunt,  and  Emma,  she  could  not  avoid  remarking  it. 

"  We  are  so  glad  you  are  better,"  said  her  aunt,  reading  her 
heart. 

"  Oh,  hut  you  are  so  cheerful." 

Her  lip  trembled  as  she  spoke,  and,  covering  her  face  with  her 
hands,  she  burst  into  tears.  It  was  then  with  the  greatest  caution 
they  hade  her  hope.  Adelaide,  with  intensity  of  soul,  watched 
every  word,  investigated  every  look — questioned  them ;  until, 
with  much  trembling,  fearing  that,  as  she  drank  so  deeply  of  the 
cup  of  bitterness,  these  mercy  drops  would  burst  the  frail  tenure 
of  her  existence,  they  told  her  of  Edwin's  safety.  As  the  flowers 
of  summer,  withered  beneath  the  scorching  rays  of  an  arid  sky, 
when  moistened  by  the  dews  of  heaven  in  the  morning,  bloom 
and  blush  with  renovated  beauty,  so  did  the  news  of  Edwin's 
safety  heal  the  malady  of  her  heart ;  and  as  the  springs  of  life 
were  again  moved  by  the  seraph  Hope,  Adelaide  looked  up  and 
lived.  The  meeting  of  friends  is  a  bliss  too  sacred  for  the  pen  of 
mortals  to  paint.  Let  the  curtain  close  over  the  soul's  full  foun- 
tain, and  imagination  brings  home  a  joy  so  full  and  overflowing. 
The  meeting  was  such  as  is  only  known  in  those  families  where 
love  is  the  connecting  chain  ;  where  the  happiness  of  one  is  the 
happiness  of  all ;  where  the  slightest  sigh  finds  a  response  in 
every  heart,  and  the  smiles  ot  content,  like  the  sun's  bright  rays, 
dispense  joy  and  pleasure  to  all  around.  Daily  did  the  fair  invalid 
regain  her  strength ;  and  beauty,  rendered  more  transcendently 
beautiful  by  sorrow  and  joy,  robed  Adelaide  Mowbray  in  her 
brightest  hues.. 

Edwin  and  Mr.  Vernon  had  concluded  when  they  left  home  to 
embark  in  the  President,  b,ut  a  friend  of  Mr.  Vernon  had  taken 
passage  on  board  the  New  York,  with  his  family,  and  being  a  par- 
ticular acquaintance  of  his,  and  engaged  in  the  same  business,  he 
and  Edwin  changed  their  minds  and  sailed  in  the  same  vessel. 

They  wrote  from  Havre,  after  a  passage  of  fifteen  days.  These 
letters,  however,  never  reached  those  for  whom  they  were  de- 
signed ;  and  the  want  of  opportunity,  owing  to  their  rapid  travel- 
ling, together  with,  perhaps,  a  little  more  neglect  than  should  have 
been  manifested  under  the  circumstances,  the  gentlemen  did  not 


THE     COUSINS.  117 

trouble  themselves  with  writing  again  until  they  had  reached  Bos- 
ton, on  their  return  home.  Hence  the  uncertainty  in  which  the 
family  remained  for  so  long  a  time,  and  the  serious  consequences 
that  followed.  From  Havre  they  proceeded  up  the  Seine  to  Rouen  ; 
thence  in  a  post  chaise  to  Paris,  where  they  tarried  for  some  time, 
much  delighted  in  viewing  the  vast  variety  of  interesting  and 
delightful  objects  of  nature  and  art  which  met  their  eyes  in  every 
direction.  They  left  Paris  in  a  diligence  for  Brussels,  passed 
through  a  portion  of  Belgium,  visited  Ghent,  Antwerp,  &c.  Took 
boat  for  Rotterdam,  thence  to  Amsterdam,  where,  after  spending  a 
week,  they  returned  to  Rotterdam  by  the  Hague,  and  embarked 
for  London,  where  they  remained  for  some  weeks,  busily  engaged 
in  "  sight-seeing" — gazing  upon  what  unnumbered  eyes  had  be- 
held before — on  scenes  which  had  often  been  pictured  forth  by 
able  and  glowing  pens,  both  in  history  and  poetry.  By  mail  coach 
they  proceeded  to  Oxford,  Stratford,  and  a  number  of  other  places; 
visited  Melrose  and  Abbotsford,  and  arrived  in  Edinburgh,  where 
they  spent  some  time  in  making  excursions  to  old  abbeys  and  cas- 
tles :  next  to  the  highlands  of  Scotland,  visiting  Falkirk,  Stirling', 
and  Bannockburn,  and  many  other  places  of  note  ;  sailed  up  Loch 
Lomond,  stopping  at  Ellen's  Island  ;  then  passing  on  to  Rob  Roy's 
cave,  rambled  over  ^e  hills  and  ascended  Ben  Lomond ;  thence  in 
a  steamboat  to  Dunbarton,  and  thence  by  the  Clyde  to  Glasgow  ; 
visited  the  Giant's  Causeway  ;  thence  to  Dublin,  crossed  over  to 
Liverpool,  where  they  embarked  on  board  the  Caledonia,  and  left 
the  old  world  for  the  new,  with  the  joyful  anticipations  of  their 
approaching  union.  Their  hearts  were  truly  pained  at  the  recital 
of  the  sufferings  their  absence  had  caused  their  friends.  But  now 
all  was  joy  and  gladness  again,  and  Edwin  and  Adelaide  deter- 
mined upon  a  speedy  union.  Emma  and  Charles  Vernon  were 
to  be  married  at  the  same  time  ;  and  again  the  sun  of  prosperity 
beamed  upon  their  dwelling. 

"  Emma,"  said  Adelaide,  one  day,  as  the  gentlemen  were  plan- 
ning their  bright  schemes  of  future  happiness,  "  I  vrould  like  to 
select  a  place — "  for  the  ceremony,  she  would  have  said,  when, 
blushing  deeply,  she  hesitated. 

"  Speak,  my  Adelaide,"  said  Edwin,  "select  a  place  for  what?" 

"  For  our  union,"  replied  the  lovely  girl. 

"  It  shall  be  just  where  you  please,  and  just  as  you  please,"  re- 
plied he,  "  but  let  it  be  soon." 


118  THE      COUSINS. 

"  Where,"  asked  Mr.  Vernon,  "  is  the  favored  place  ?" 

"  That  must  remain  a  secret  between  myself  and  Emma,"  re- 
plied Adelaide. 

"  We  will  confide  cheerfully  in  your  selection,"  said  he,  taking 
Emma's  hand,  "  hearts  like  yours  will  hallow  every  spot,  and 
beings  like  yourselves  will  confer  peace  and  happiness  upon  any 
place." 

It  was  in  the  leafy  month  of  June,  when  the  Gothic  structure, 
beautifully  decorated  by  nature  and  art,  formed  the  sacred  spot 
where  the  altar  of  Hymen  was  erected.  Frances  and  Elizabeth 
Morton,  ever  happy  in  dispensing  pleasure,  assisted  Adelaide  and 
Emma  in  decorating  the  temple  dedicated  to  Friendship,  with  fes- 
toons of  laurel  and  woodbine,  hanging  a  garland  of  the  choicest 
flowers  from  their  arch.  And  there,  at  the  close  of  a  day  without 
clouds,  on  that  spot,  that  hallowed  .fatal  spot — where  the  extreme 
of  life's  pulsations  had  vibrated — where  the  Muses  held  their  revel, 
and  wound  their  hidden  spells  around  the  heart — where  they  had 
feasted  upon  the  beauties  of  nature  and  drank  deep  of  the  soul  of 
poetry — there,  upon  the  banks  of  that  beautiful  river,  while  the 
sun  was  casting  his  last  rays  athwart  the  landscape,  they  gave 
themselves  to  each  other  in  the  sight  of  earth  and  heaven. 


THE    SOUL'S    OWN    HOUR. 


THE  day,  with  its  vicissitudes,  had  closed.  The  din  of  business 
had  ceased.  The  laborer  had  found  rest  in  his  humble  cot.  The 
breezes  of  evening  had  chimed  their  vesper  hymn.  Night  in  ray- 
less  majesty  curtained  the  earth  with  its  sombre  pall.  The  light 
step  and  the  merry  laugh  had  passed  away  with  its  own  echo,  and 
silence  swayed  her  magic  wand  over  the  whole  face  of  nature. 
Then  came  a  hush  which  wound  its  spell  over  the  soul,  and  con- 
centrated all  the  pulses  of  life.  The  past  appeared  in  the  distance 
like  a  speck  in  the  horizon — like  the  vanishing  away  of  clouds 
after  a  brilliant  sunset — like  the  dying  away  of  those  bright  tints 
which  gleam  athwart  the  heavens,  and  fade  quickly  from  the  sight. 
The  past!  oh,  tell  me  where  it  is  ?  Or  rather,  tell  me  where  it  is 
not  ?  The  happy  days  of  childhood,  which  awake  with  the  blush- 
ing morn,  and  slumbered  with  the  dewy  eve ;  the  school-house 
bell,  which  operated  like  a  charm  upon  each  young  heart;  the 
cheerful  faces,  convened  over  their  accustomed  tasks,  bespeaking 
minds  free  from  care ;  the  shrill  laugh,  and  the  hum  of  busy 
voices,  which  mingle  wildly  in  the  wanton  breeze ;  youth,  with 
her  chaplet  of  bright  flowers,  and  her  breath  sweet  as  the  lone 
rose  of  the  desert,  her  step  light,  and  her  bosom  throbbing  with 
the  pure  impulse  of  nature ;  the  early  dawn,  the  spangled  vale, 
the  lofty  mountain  with  its  mystic  wreaths  of  vapor:  the  tall 
forest  trees  and  the  opening  blossoms,  filled  the  heart  with  delight 
and  pleasure.  There  was  joy — there  was  bliss,  in  listening  to  the 
warbling  of  the  birds,  as  from  bough  to  bough  their  shrill  notes 
came  trilling  on  the  ear.  There  was  rapture  in  the  parent's  eye, 
as  the  look  of  love  beamed  soft  upon  the  soul,  imparting  a  sense 
of  the  depth  of  that  holy  affection  which  reigns  in  a  father's  and 
a  mother's  bosom.  The  expression,  though  untold,  can  never  be 
forgotten.  It  lingers  upon  the  mind;  and  though,  like  the  faint 
rays  of  the  evening,  it  seems  at  times  scarcely  perceptible,  yet 


120  THI    SOUL'S    OWN 

such  is  its  mysterious  power,  that  the  slightest  touch  of  sorrow 
kindles  the  lambent  flame  ;  and  its  hallowed  influence  once  felt, 
the  soul  clings  to  the  dear  remembrance,  and  will  for  ever  cling, 
even  while  it  sickens  at  the  recollections  of  the  past — yet  rejoices 
that  it  has  been.  From  youth  we  step  to  maturer  age ;  when 
cares,  hopes,  pleasures,  pains  and  anxieties,  cluster  together  ; 
when  the  full  beams ~of  the  noon-tide  sun  descend;  when  the 
autumn  of  our  lives  succeed  spring  and  summer,  and  we  see,  if 
ever,  the  fulfilment  of  our  hopes.  Then,  at  quiet  eve,  when  our 
schemes  are  accomplished — when  the  light  and  shade  of  our  lives 
have  passed  away,  and  the  sun  has  climbed  far  over  the  zenith, 
and  the  lengthening  shadows  of  the  evening  extend  over  the  land- 
scape— when  the  silver  chord  is  loosening,  and  the  bowl  marred, 
if  not  broken,  at  the  fountain — when  twilight  leads  the  mind  to 
gaze  upon  the  stars,  those  silent  messengers  of  the  skies,  as  one 
by  one  they  faintly  gleam  in  the  blue  vault  of  heaven  ;  and  the 
crescent  moon  slowly  wends  her  way  over  the  towering  trees,  until 
unobserved  by  their  waving  branches,  she  peers  aloft  in  all  their 
transcendent  brightness — then  comes  the  hush  over  the  soul !  an 
indescribable  stillness,  mingled  with  the  sweet  recollections  of  by- 
gone days.  Then  comes  the  spirit's  hour !  when  it  communes 
with  its  God ;  and  looks  away  to  those  pure  mansions,  where 
blooms  eternal  youth,  where  change  never  comes,  where  no  sick- 
ening thoughts  of  the  past  cast  a  shade  over  the  soul,  and  cause 
the  heart  to  exclaim,  "  O,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove,  for  then  I 
would  fly  away  and  be  for  ever  at  rest." 


CHILDHOOD    AND    YOUTH. 


CHILDHOOD  and  Youth,  like  the  sweet  flowers  of  summer,  are 
beautiful :  beautiful  in  their  own  bright  forms — happy  in  their 
own  sweet  visions.  Light  as  the  air  they  breathe,  no  cares,  no 
anxieties  press  upon  them,  save  those  which  are  like  the  still  dews 
of  evening  that  fall  on  the  blushing  flowers,  and  pass  away  in  the 
first  rays  of  the  morning  sun. 

Childhood  and  Youth,  like  flowers,  soon  fade — soon  cease  to  at- 
tract, by  their  richness  and  beauty,  the  admiring  eye.  Some  retain 
their  fragrance,  long  after  their  loveliest  hues  are  fled»  while 
others  more  gaudy,  more  strikingly  brilliant,  expire  as  they  close 
their  bright  petals,  and  we  know  them  no  more  for  ever  :  no  per- 
fume remains  to  render  their  faded  leaves  precious.  How  neces- 
sary for  the  young  to  cultivate  their  minds  while  living  among 
sunshine  and  flowers,  and  derive  instruction  from  them.  As  they 
grow  in  years,  and  enter  upon  the  active  duties  of  life,  how  desir- 
able it  is  that  they  should  perform  their  part  upon  its  tragic  stage, 
in  such  a  manner  as  shall  render  them  useful  and  respected. 
They  will  soon  be  parents — soon  have  the  care  of  young  mor- 
tals ;  surrounded  by  those  who  will  look  up  to  them  for  amuse- 
ment and  instruction.  Their  minds  must  be  cultivated,  if  they 
would  be  happy  and  make  others  so  ;  their  hearts  store- houses  of 
intelligence,  from  which  should  emanate  all  that  can  delight. 
Home  must  be  the  bright  spot;  earth  must  know  none  which  can 
equal  it.  It  must  be  the  resort  of  love,  of  peace,  of  joy.  Every- 
thing depends  upon  the  proper  cultivation  of  the  mind.  Let  the 
Bible  be  first  studied ;  it  is  from  this  sacred  fount  the  infant 
becomes  first  nourished.  How  the  bright  eyes  of  the  listening 
cherubs  gleam  with  the  varied  emotions  of  joy  and  grief,  at  the 
recital  of  its  interesting  stories ! 

Let  truth  be  first  stamped  upon  opening  intellects,  for  great  is  the 
pleasure  derived  from  this  pure  fountain  of  enjoyment!  The 


122  CHILDHOOD     AND     YOUTH. 

mother  can  gain  much  by  conversing  with  her  children  ;  they  can 
be  calmed  and  stilled  in  this  way,  better  than  in  any  other. 
Children  become  weary  of  their  playthings,  and  are  often  irrita- 
ble :  their  feelings  must  be  soothed  by  their  mother ;  this  is  her 
peculiar  province  ;  and  as  they  grow  in  years  she  must  strengthen 
her  efforts.  Home  must  still  be  the  elysium  of  their  souls.  If  sepa- 
rated, much  still  depends  upon  the  mother ;  she  must  follow  her 
children  with  her  letters  and  her  counsel.  Her  communications 
must  be  such  as  to  keep  alive  the  flame  of  love,  and  draw  their 
minds  back  to  the  scenes  of  their  childhood,  that,  however  remote 
they  may  be — in  whatever  situation  they  may  be  placed — in  temp- 
tation, in  sickness,  in  health,  in  prosperity  or  adversity — like  a 
charm,  home  and  mother  must  operate  upon  them,  and  prove  a 
talisman  to  guide  them  all  in  their  devious  ways. 

In  affliction's  stormy  hour,  when  the  bright  orb  of  day  is  shut 
from  the  weakened  eye — when  the  voice  of  song  is  hushed,  and 
the  rambling  among  the  flowers  are  over — when  the  same  mono- 
tonous scene  occurs  from  day  to  day,  from  month  to  month,  and 
not  unfrequently  from  year  to  year,  it  is  then  the  mind  seeks  relief : 
it  wants  enjoyment,  for  it  is  an  active  principle  which  will  never, 
which  can  never  sleep ;  and  the  more  intense  the  suffering  the 
more  active  the  spirit.  Nothing  can  chain  it ;  it  will  work — it  will 
ruminate  upon  the  by-gone  scenes  of  joy  and  grief ;  lights  and 
shades  pass  over  it.  It  receives  consolation  from  its  own  re- 
sources. The  books  studied,  the  lessons  imparted,  sermons  well  di- 
gested, miscellanies,  lyrics,  poetry,  history,  &c.,  all  serve  to  com- 
fort and  relieve  the  aching  mind.  Persons  in  distress  can  over- 
come a  thousand  nameless  evils,  by  reciting  or  composing ;  such 
a  train  of  thoughts  overcomes  pain  and  lifts  the  soul  above  earth. 
How  necessary  to  enrich  the  mind  in  early  life,  before  "  the  evil 
days  come."  It  dies  not  with  the  body ;  it  runs  parallel  with  God. 
It  is  a  living,  undying  principle,  and  must  be  enriched  here.  The 
more  it  knows  of  God,  the  more  it  will  be  like  him ;  and  the  bet- 
ter prepared  for  sublimer  enjoyments  above.  The  soul  that  views 
God  in  all  his  works,  in  every  tree,  shrub,  and  flower,  "  sees  him 
in  clouds,  and  hears  him  in  the  wind."  With  every  change,  with 
every  object,  associates  the  Deity.  That  soul  lives  a  life  truly  great, 
and  will  rise  high  in  a  purer  clime,  amid  that  bright  constellation 
of  intellectual  beings  who  worship  continually  before  the  throne 
of  God  and  the  Lamb.  Let  the  youth  attend  to  these  things,  and 


CHILDHOOD      AND     YOUTH.  123 

for  a  moment  suspend  their  anxiety  for  the  outward  adornment  of 
their  persons;  and  remember,  a  well  educated  mind  is  a  jewel  far 
more  estimable  in  the  eyes  of  an  intelligent  man,  than  the  most 
beautiful  exterior,  deficient  of  this  treasure.  It  is  the  only  source 
of  permanent  enjoyment  here,  and  will  enhance  their  happiness  in 
another  and  a  brighter  world. 


POETICAL    PIECES. 


THE    .&GEAN    SEA. 


THE  jEgean  sea !  how  beautiful 

Its  sun-lit  waters  flow  ; 
Where  fabled  Delos  floated  once— 

Till  Juno's  dreadful  vow, 
That  on  the  earth  there  should  no  spot 

Be  found  for  one,  whose  charms 
Dimm'd  here  a  moment,  and  seduc'd 

Her  husband  from  her  arms. 

To  shun  her  wrath,  immortal  Jove, 

To  Delos  quick  convey'd 
The  fair  Latona,  where  her  boy 

The  floating  island  stay'd  : 
The  fam'd  Apollo,  he  whose  lute 

Sent  forth  such  rapt'rous  strains — 
The  rocks  were  charm'd — the  birds  were  mute 

Upon  the  dewy  plains. 

The  swains,  delighted,  in  the  vales, 

Danced  on  the  blooming  flowers ; 
As  his  soft  voice  on  whispering  .gales 

Stole  o'er  the  vine-clad  bowers. 
The  ^Egean  sea !  how  beautiful ! 

It  opens  on  the  eye, 
As  soft  and  clear  its  azure  blue, 

Mirrors  the  spangled  sky. 


126  THE     AEGEAN     SEA. 

The  JEgean  sea !  the  ^Egean  sea  ! 

How  charming  is  the  name  ; 
Go  read  the  Greek  mythology 

And  learn  from  whence  it  came. 
Once  jEgeus  and  his  son  agreed 

A  monster  to  destroy  ; 
And  as  a  sign,  should  he  succeed, 

He  told  his  darling  boy, 

To  raise  on  high  the  snow-white  sail 

Upon  the  floating  tide, 
In  triumph  on  the  prosperous  gale, 

His  noble  bark  should  ride  ; 
But  should  th'  immortal  Gods  oppose, 

And  Jove  his  thunders  hurl, 
Then,  as  the  white  wave  'round  him  flows, 

The  broad,  black  seal  unfurl. 

Theseus  departs,  the  monster  slays 

By  Ariadne  led ; 
And  from  his  labyrinthian  cave, 

Brought  forth  the  monster  dead ! 
Low  at  her  feet,  his  laurels  green 

Theseus  delighted  laid ; 
She  smil'd,  he  lov'd,  till  by  a  wretch 

She  was  from  him  betray'd  ! 

So  full  of  anguish  was  his  soul 

At  his  ill-fated  lot, 
The  waves  unheeded  round  him  roll, 

The  signal  is  forgot ! 
He  thought  not  of  that  anxious  mind 

On  winds  and  waves  intent — 
That  father,  whom  he  left  behind, 

With  age  and  sorrow  bent. 

The  ship  of  Theseus  presses  on 
Toward  the  whitened  sands, 


REFLECTIONS. 

Where  high  upon  the  towering  rock, 

The  aged  jEgeus  stands. 
Far  off,  upon  the  deep  blue  main, 

He  turns  his  eager  eyes ; 
And  in  the  misty  distance  sees 

A  sail  in  faintness  rise  ! 

The  whitened  flag  meets  not  his  view 

And  in  his  heart-felt  grief 
For  Theseus,  by  the  monster  slain, 

Sprung  from  the  shelving  reef ! 
Deep  in  the  opening,  foaming  spray, 

He  sank  in  maniac  glee  ! 
And  in  that  last  sad  fatal  leap, 

Baptiz'd  th'  uEgean  sea. 


REFLECTIONS  ON  ROCKAWAY  BEACH 


Written  while  at  the  residence  of  Benj.  F.  Thompson,  Biq. 


OCEAN  !  majestic,  beautiful  and  grand  ! 

Thy  waves  enchain  me  by  their  ceaseless  roar ; 
Thou  elder  brother  of  the  solid  land, 

I  stand  entranced  upon  thy  lonely  shore. 
Creative  fancy  pictures  to  my  view 

The  thrilling  scenes  which  once  was  witnessed  here  ; 
When  the  tall  ship  and  her  devoted  crew 

Perished  amid  these  waters  deep  and  clear. 


REFLECTIONS. 

Hark  !  on  the  breeze  from  the  engulfing  wave, 

I  hear  the  shrieks  of  mortals  in  despair ; 
Is  there  no  arm,  Eternal  Power,  to  save  ? 

No  ear  to  listen  to  their  dying  prayer  ? 
High  rolls  the  sea,  and  dark  each  flying  cloud, 

The  howling  storm  comes  rushing  from  afar; 
The  tempest  raves  in  moanings  long  and  loud, 

Enwrapped  in  gloom  is  every  beaming  star  ! 

On  billows  high  the  reeling  ship  is  tossed, 

Like  a  mere  feather  on  the  boundless  waste  ; 
Her  chart,  her  compass,  and  her  anchor  lest, 

While  o'er  her  deck  the  wild  waves  madly  haste. 
Far  in  the  distance,  like  a  snowy  bird, 

She  skims  along,  and  nears  the  treacherous  strand  ; 
Amid  the  blast,  from  sinking  souls  is  heard 

The  piteous  cry,  "  Oh,  bear  us  to  the  land  1" 

The  little  boat  leaps  o'er  the  swelling  wave, 

It  rises  high — now  sinks — now  mounts  again ; 
Gains  the  tall  ship,  and  from  a  watery  grave 

Preserves  a  few,  and  brings  them  to  the  main. 
Brings  a  fond  mother,  and  her  children  dear, 

But  where's  the  husband — father — tell  me  where  ? 
God  speed  the  boat !  again  it  ventures  near — 

Hope  lives  !  it  dies  !     Love,  what  avails  thy  prayer  ? 

Behold  the  husband  clinging  to  the  wreck, 

He  sees  with  joy  the  little  skiff  afar — 
Life,  love,  and  joy — the  world  a  misty  speck, 

Illumin'd  only  by  hope's  tremulous  star. 
How  vain  its  light !     For  ever  fled  its  beams  1 

The  little  boat  returns  to  him  no  more  ! 
He  stares,  as  from  some  strange  bewildering  dream, 

And  wakes  upon  a  still  more  boundless  shore  ! 


REFLECTIONS.  129 

Scarce  dies  the  echo  on  the  listening  ear, 

When  louder,  clearer,  comes  the  startling  wail ! 
Borne  on  the  blast  amid  the  tempest  drear, 

Rising  in  anguish  o'er  the  shivering  gale ! 
What  numbers  line  the  sandy  beach.     Dismay'd 

They  hear  the  shrieks,  but  no  relief  can  give  ; 
Fain  would  they  yield  the  dying  sufferers  aid, 

Could  they  but  reach  their  fated  bark  and  live. 

*Tis  vain !     No  answer  to  their  cry  is  given — 

Their  starting  tear  bespeaks  their  inward  grief; 
'Till  one — may  his  reward  be  sweet  in  heaven ! 

•Hisk'd  his  own  life  and  sprung  to  their  relief. 
While  Ocean's  God  above  the  wild  waves  flies, 

Spurring  his  steeds  o'er  the  phosphoric  deep ; 
He  braves  the  storm,  and  every  effort  tries, 

And  saves  the  master  by  one  desperate  leap ! 

One  thrilling  wail  ascends  upon  the  breeze, 

Floats  o'er  the  deep,  and  echoes  from  the  shore  ; 
The  proud  ship  sinks  amid  the  flowing  seas, 

And  hope's  bright  visions  die  to  live  no  more. 
Wave  after  wave  bears  on  its  glassy  breast, 

The  lov'd  of  many  a  fond  and  faithful  heart ; 
Clasp'd  close  in  death,  in  calm  repose  they  rest, 

Nor  winds,  nor  waves,  <;an  ever  more  them  part. 

But  who  are  these  ?  how  beautiful  that  form — 

How  sweet  the  expression  of  that  lovely  face  ; 
Surely  they  cared  not  for  the  gath'ring  storm, 

So  closely  they  cling  within  love's  dear  embrace. 
And  this  sweet  babe,  upon  whose  young  fair  brow, 

With  what  delight  the  mother's  lip  has  press'd ; 
Colder  than  ice,  or  mountain's  drifted  snow, 

It  slumbers  deep  upon  her  frozen  breast. 

The  marble  spire  that  rears  its  pointed  head, 
Where  buried  hopes  and  joys  are  now  inurn'd, 


130  FRENCH     REVOLUTION. 

Warns  the  lone  traveller  to  lightly  tread 

On  forms  which  once  with  joyous  spirits  bum'd. 

'Twas  hard  to  die  when  all  was  bright  and  new, 
The  port  they  longed  for  just  within  their  sight ; 

Their  souls  exulting  in  the  opening  view, 
To  sink  for  ever  in  eternal  night ! 


ON  READING   TRIER'S    HISTORY   OF  THE 
FRENCH   REVOLUTION. 


WHEN  evil  discord  rent  a  nation's  breast, 

And  all  was  horror,  terror,  and  dismay ; 
When  crowds  on  crowds  in  wild  confusion  press'd, 

Like  thirsty  bloodhounds  in  pursuit  of  prey ; 
Hearts  firm,  undaunted  as  the  mountain  height, 

Met  the  full  torrent  of  the  purple  gore  ; 
Shrank  not  amid  the  cannon's  flashing  light, 

But  stood  unshrinking  'mid  the  dread  uproar. 

Ill-fated  France  ;  convuls'd,  dishonor'd,  riven — 

How  sad  the  fate  of  her  beloved  ones ; 
When  youth  and  talent  to  the  block  were  given, 

And  on  the  scaffold  bled  her  martyr'd  sons! 
When  frantic  woman  clasped  the  manly  form 

Of  him  she  loved,  and  hung  in  wild  despair 
Upon  his  bosom,  heedless  of  the  storm 

Which  howl'd  terrific  through  the  troubled  air, 

Conflicting  passions,  like  the  heaving  main, 
Convuls'd  each  breast,  and  madly  bore  along 


FRENCH     BEVOLUTION.  131 

TV  infuriated  mob,  as  treacherous,  as  vain, 

Seeking  revenge  'mid  ribaldFy  and  song. 
Determin'd  spirits,  resolute  and  bold, 

Who  faced  unflinching  deaths  of  every  kind ; 
Struggling  for  liberty,  and  not  for  gold, 

Fell,  like  the  oak,  before  the  driving  wind  ? 

E'en  royalty,  with  all  its  pemp  and  power, 

Ceased  to  attract,  and  "  down  with  tyrants,"  criea 
Those  who  had  worshipped  but  an  hour  before 

The  wretched  Louis,  and  his  beauteous  bride. 
What  heart  can  read,  and  yet  refrain  to  weep 

O'er  the  lov'd  group,  within  their  gloomy  cell ; 
Immersed  in  misery,  blasting,  withering,  deep — 

Beyond  the  power  of  mortal  man  to  tell. 

'Mid  those  dark  hours,  what  were  the  gilded  charms 

Of  courts  and  palaces,  and  lofty  dome, 
But  treacherous  snares — a  syren's  deadly  arms 

Dragging  them  down  where  all  of  hope  had  flown  ? 
Let  me  not  read  of  Royalty  again. 

My  heart  is  sick  of  the  sad  tale  of  wo ; 
Deceit  and  bribery  are  in  their  train, 

And  dark  suspicion  lurks  where'er  they  go. 

Hark !  how  the  tocsin  thunders  from  the  halls ! 

Hark  !  the  shrill  echo  !  quick  !  to  arms,  to  arms !" 
Louder  and  louder  on  the  ear  it  falls, 

And  even  life  of  every  hope  disarms  ! 
God  speed  the  day,  when  tyranny  shall  cease, 

And  equal  rights  to  every  soul  be  given ; 
Earth  one  grand  altar  where  celestial  peace 

Shall  raise  her.pseari  to  a  smiling  Heaven. 


132 


WOMAN'S   LOVE;   CTR  THE  PRAYER  OF  FAITH, 


"  IT  is  a  fearful  night,  my  babe, 

The  storm  is  gathering  fast ; 
Oh !  God  of  mercy,  shield,  I  pray, 

My  husband  from  the  blast ! 

"  My  husband  !  yes,  my  loved,  my  own, 

My  bosom's  sweetest  joy  ; 
A  light  which  o'er  my  path  hath  shone  ; 

Let  not  that  light  destroy. 

"  Hush,  hush  thy  wail,  my  baby  dear, 

Rest  thou  upon  my  breast ; 
Soon  shall  the  voice  our  spirits  cheer 

Of  him,  whom  we  love  best." 

The  wind  howled  loud  and  fearfully, 

The  thunders  rent  the  sky ; 
And  'mid  the  lightning's  fitful  gleam 

'Rose  the  young  mother's  cry. 

"  Oh  !  shield  him  from  the  dreadful  storm, 
And  bring  him  home  once  more ; 

Let  him  not  perish  far  away 
From  his  own  cottage  door. 

"  I  know,  I  feel  the  blighted  curse, 

Which  rests  upon  his  head  ; 
But  oh  !  I  love  him  still ;  and  ne'er 

Shall  cease  'till  life  has  fled. 

"  The  hour  I  never  can  forget 
When  first  we  fondly  met ; 


•WOMAN'S    LOVB.  133 

The  look  of  love,  the  kindling  eye, 
I  see,  I  see  them  yet. 

"  Full  well  I  know  how  changed  he  is, 

Know  how  the  sparkling  bowl 
Has  robbed  me  of  my  highest  bliss, 

And  pierced  my  inmost  soul. 

"  But  still  I'll  love,  and  still  I'll  pray, 

That  he  from  vice  may  turn  ; 
I'll  fold  him  closer  to  my  heart, 

And  plead  in  '  words  that  burn.' 

"Hush  thee,  my  little  baby  boy, 

While  I  the  throne  of  grace 
Implore,  that  he  we  fondly  love 

May  each  rash  step  retrace." 

Oh  !  'twas  an  hour  of  agony — 

The  mother  and  the  wife 
Wrestled  with  such  intensity, 

As  saved  her  husband's  life. 

He  stood  upon  the  door's  cold  stone, 

Unsheltered  'mid  the  blast  ; 
The  fire  was  burning  on  his  brow — 

The  rain  was  falling  fast. 

He  saw  the  bending  form  of  one 

Who,  like  an  angel,  knelt; 
Wretch  as  he  was,  once  more  his  soul 

Woman's  kind  influence  felt. 

He  heard  her  prayer — he  saw  her  look, 

'Twas  strange — unearthly — wild  ! 
She  paused — then  clasped  the  Holy  Book, 

And  kissed  her  sleeping  child. 


134  WOMAN'S    LOVE. 

Heard  her  exclaim — "  He  will  refrain — 

He  will,  he  will,  my  boy  ; 
He  cannot — no,  he  cannot  rob 

Us  both  of  every  joy." 

She  pressed  her  baby  to  her  breast — 

"  Thy  father's  image  here, 
Shall  ever  find  a  welcome  rest : 

Away,  repining  tear !" 

Subdued,  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms, 

"  Thou'st  conquered,  love,"  he  cries ; 
"  Hereafter  nought  shall  dim  thy  charms, 
In  thy  fond  husband's  eyes* 

"  Away,  away,  enchanted  cup, 

My  lips  shall  ne'er  again 
Taste  the  accursed,  deadly  drop  : 

Her  hopes  shall  not  be  vain." 

Nor  were  they  vain — the  temperance  pledge 
Received  his  willing  name  ; 

And  ne'er  again,  in  that  loved  cot, 
The  wily  tempter  came  ! 

'Twas  woman's  love,  'twas  woman's  prayer 
Availed — he  ceased  to  roam  ; 

An  angel  sought  the  prodigal, 

And  brought  the  wanderer  home  ! 


135 


WE   ALL    DO   FADE    AS    A   LEAF.' 


AND  is  it  true,  that  all  must  die — 

All  that  is  lovely  must  decay  ? 
Each  flower  beneath  yon  sunny  sky, 

Fade  in  its  beams  and  pass  away  ? 

Sweet  Spring  !  thy  opening  charms  all  hail ! 

A  striking  emblem  of  that  hour 
When  man,  weak,  impotent  and  frail, 

Shall  rise  by  an  Almighty  power. 

Summer  !   delightful  season  !  all 
Beneath  thy  cheering  rays  rejoice  ; 

Nature  and  art  obey  thy  call, 

And  fly  with  transport  at  thy  voice. 

Autumn  !  to  me  for  ever  sweet, 
Thy  golden  sunsets  and  thy  hues, 

Which  linger  where  the  shadows  meet, 
And  sparkle  in  the  morning  dews. 

Thy  falling  leaf  speaks  loud  to  me  ; 

The  music  of  thy  voice  I  love  I 
They  charm  me  with  their  minstrelsy, 

And  waft  my  raptured  soul  above. 

Winter !  thou,  too,  hast  many  charms, 
For  thou  hast  seen  thy  sweets  decay ; 

Spring,  Summer,  Autumn,  from  thy  arms, 
Have  faded,  died,  and  passed  away. 

And  thus  I've  seen — ah  !  who  has  not  ? — 
Life's  brightest  prospects  wrapped  in  gloom 


136  THE     VISION     OF     THE     MOUNT. 

Remembrance  lingers  on  that  spot 
Where  beauty  slumbers  in  the  tomb. 

Away  from  earth,  this  changing  earth, 
I'll  look  where  autumn  leaves  ne'er  fade  ; 

Where  flowers,  perennial  from  their  birth, 
Bloom  sweetly  on  the  perfumed  glade. 

A  brighter  spot  than  eye  hath  seen 

Remains,  where  change  can  never  come  ; 

A  sweeter  rest  for  those,  I  ween, 

Who  sigh  to  find  their  heavenly  home. 


THE  VISION    OF   THE   MOUNT. 


I  SAW  upon  a  mountain's  top, 
A  group  of  beings  bright ; 

Sparkling  amid  the  summer  flowers, 
Beneath  the  sun's  soft  light. 

Gayly  they  danced,  gayly  they  sung, 
Their  hearts  were  full  of  glee ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  laugh 
Went  forth  from  spirits  free, 

Like  insects  of  a  day,  they  basked 
Amid  life's  dazzling  rays ; 

A  happy  throng,  they  passed  along 
In  pleasure's  wildering  maze. 


THE     VISION     OF     THE     MOUNT.  137 

In  their  bright  eyes  no  care  was  seen ; 

No  thought  of  future  ill 
Disturbed  their  bosom's  calm  serene'; 

But  all  was  hushed  and  still. 

The  heavens  vrere  bright,  the  air  was  sweet, 

Young  zephyrs  fanned  their  brows  ; 
And  where  the  murmuring  brooklets  meet, 

They  paid  their  morning  vows. 

A  pure  oblation  from  their  hearts 

Went  up  in  incense  bright ; 
The  scene  around,  on  high,  afar, 

Was  one  of  pure  delight. 

I  looked  again — and  oh,  how  changed  ! 

Each  face  was  blanched  •with  care, 
And  all  looked  sad  and  wo-begone, 

Where  all  was  bright  and  fair. 

"  What  means  this  change  ?"  I  inly  cried; 

"  Those  buoyant  spirits,  where 
Have  they  departed  ?  where  the  young, 

With  dark  and  flowing  hair  ? 

"  What  means  this  blight,  these  lingering  steps, 

These  looks  of  withering  care  ; 
These  forms  disabled,  tott«ring,  bent, 

And  fragile  as  the  air  ? 

"  Can  these  be  those,  the  beautiful 

Who  gayly  laughed  and  smiled? 
Can  these  be  those  who  yesterday 

Were  blithe  as  Eden's  child  ?" 

There  came  a  voice  upon  the  wind, 
Over  the  rolling  wave  ; 


138  THE     VISION     OF     THE     MOUNT. 

I  looked,  and  saw  old  Time  appear, 
With  visage  dark  and  grave. 

Calmly  he  bore  a  living  form, 
Trembling,  as  nature's  springs, 

By  one  and  one,  alternate  broke, 
Upon  his  ebon  wings. 

Raising  his  powerful  voice  on  high, 
He  shook  his  magic  wand  ; 

Turned  his  keen  eye  on  sea  and  sky, 
And  on  the  solid  land. 

"  Behold !"  he  cried,  "  how  beautiful 
Each  scene  to  you  appears  ;" 

Then,  with  his  hand  waved  o'er  my  head, 
He  brought  the  weight  of  years. 

"Read  now  the  vision  in  yourself — 
Why  leap  ye  not  and  run, 

With  buoyant  feet  and  eagle  eye, 
O'er  lands  beneath  the  sun  ?" 

Oppress'd  and  weak,  my  spirits  gone ; 

Tired,  faint,  and  nerveless,  I 
Fell  on  my  face,  and  cried,  "  Oh,  tell 

Me,  Time,  if  I  must  die !" 

"  Not  yet,  not  yet — go  travel  on, 
With  all  your  weight  of  years, 

And  from  the  '  Vision  of  the  Mount,' 
Learn  life  is  fraught  with  tears." 


139 


MEMORY. 


HOURS  gone  by,  for  ever  fled, 
Numbered  with  the  silent  dead, 

'Tis  for  you  I  mourn. 
Will  your  light  no  more  appear? 
The  young,  the  beautiful,  the  dear, 
With  eyes  undimmed  by  sorrow's  tear, 

Will  they  ne'er  return  ? 

Memory !  'tis  thine  to  bring 
The  brilliant  hues  of  life's  bright  spring- 
Each  fond  remembrance  trace ; 
The  witching  form,  the  cheek  so  fair, 
The  deep  blue  eyes,  the  flowing  hair, 
The  rose  that  bloomed  without  a  care 
Upon  the  dimpled  face. 

Thou  canst  bring  the  moonlit  bower, 
Thou  canst  bring  the  stilly  hour, 

The  fond  impassioned  kiss ; 
Give  back  again  the  pleasing  thrill, 
The  flame  which  age  can  never  chill, 
The  pulse  which  death  alone  can  still — 

Give  back  sweet  hours  of  bliss. 

O,  blest  memory !  thine's  the  power, 
When  skies  are  dark  and  tempests  lower, 

To  wake  the  slumbering  soul ; 
To  bring  again  the  inquiring  eye, 
Which  sought  the  cause  of  every  sigh, 
And  softly  whispered,  "  tell  me  why 

The  burning  tear-drops  roll  ?" 


140  TO     THE     COMET. 

Come  bring  again  the  look  of  love 
Which  erst  did  every  grief  remove — 

Come  take  my  willing  hand  ; 
Bring  to  my  heart  in  close  embrace, 
The  friends  I  loved — the  soul-lit  face  ; 
Each  living  feature  let  me  trace, 

Though  from  the  spirit  land  I 

I  will  not  start  their  forms  to  meet, 
Though  through  the  air  on  pinions  fleet 

They  wind  their  mystic  way  ; 
But  I  will  hail  them  with  delight, 
My  soul  shall  clasp  their  spirits  bright, 
And  with  them  take  my  upward  flight 

To  an  unclouded  day. 


TO    THE    COMET. 


MYSTERIOUS  stranger  !  from  afar, 

Through  boundless  space,  thy  course  is  run ; 
Thou  drivest  on  thy  fiery  car, 

In  endless  circles  round  the  sun. 

With  thy  portentous  blazing  train 

Thou  wheel's!  thy  way  through  yonder  sky  ; 
Then  com'st  to  view  our  Earth  again, 

And  draw  the  world's  admiring  eye. 

The  trembling  millions  quake  and  stare, 
Fill'd  with  amaze  and  dread  affright ; 


TO     THE     COMET. 

To  see  thy  bright  phosphoric  glare, 
Illume  the  darksome  clouds  of  night. 

Thou  hurriest  on  thy  mystic  way, 
Mid  rolling  orbs,  in  depths  of  space  ; 

While  none  thy  onward  march  can  stay, 
Nor  all  thy  mighty  wanderings  trace. 

Beyond  those  distant  shining  spheres, 

Where  Saturn,  Herschel,  wheel  their  rounds; 

Thou  swiftly  fliest  a  thousand  years, 
To  vast  creation's  utmost  bounds. 

What  breath  lights  up  thy  lurid  fires, 
Or  fuel  feeds  thy  wondrous  flame, 

That  fiercely  burns,  but  ne'er  expires, 

Nor  sinks  to  nought,  from  whence  it  came  ? 

At  evening's  hour  thy  trail  of  light, 
Sweeps  brilliant  o'er  the  distant  west, 

As  on  thou  tnov'st  with  winged  flight, 
Obedient  to  God's  high  behest. 

The  planets  all,  thou  passest  by, 

As  things  of  nought  which  lay  behind  ; 

Scarce  noticed  by  thy  flaming  eye, 
While  to  their  narrow  paths  confined. 

The  Voice  which  bade  the  systems  roll, 
Sublimely  through  each  circling  sphere, 

Alone  thy  wanderings  can  control, 
And  hold  thee  in  thy  wild  career. 


141 


142 


THE   END   OF   TIME.— A  D  RE  AM. 


UPON  a  cloud  of  fleecy  light, 

I  gazed  on  all  around  ~, 
The  heavens  at  noon  were  wrapped  in  night, 
And  furious  whirlwinds  in  their  might 
Caused  solid  rocks  to  speed  their  flight, 

And  shook  creation's  bound. 

I  saw  th'  affrighted  nations  stand, 

And  view'd  each  cloud-capt  tower  ; 
Touch'd  by  th'  Almighty's  awful  wand, 
They  crumbled  'neath  his  withering  hand, 
And  scenes  majestic,  solemn,  grand, 
Displayed  his  wondrous  power  1 

Than  rushing  waters  far  more  loud, 

A  startling  peal  was  heard ! 
When  issuing  from  a  parted  cloud, 
Round  whom  cherubic  angels  crowd, 
As  if  his  glory  they  would  shroud, 

Gabriel  with  trump  appeared. 

Upon  the  broad  Pacific's  breast, 

One  foot  in  grandeur  trod, 
One  on  old  ^Etna's  burning  crest — 
Whose  heaving  bosom  ne'er  found  rest, 
Till  by  this  mighty  angel  prest — 

The  footstool  of  a  God ! 

Then  looking  upward  to  the  sky, 
And  round  from  shore  to  shore, 
While  lightnings  gleamed  beneath  his  eye, 
He  raised  his  powerful  wand  on  high, 


THE     END     OF     TIME. 

And  loud  and  fearful  was  the  cry, 
That  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Vast  magazines  of  blazing  fire 

Exploded  on  my  sight ! 
Earth  reeled  and  groaned,  a  funeral  pyre, 
While  hills  and  mountains  straight  retire, 
In  strong,  convulsive  throes  expire 

In  one  broad  sea  of  light. 

The  elements  with  awe  obey — 

All  nature  stood  aghast ! 
The  sea  gave  up  its  hidden  prey, 
Hell  op'd  its  bosom  to  the  day, 
And  Death,  the  monster,  fled  away 

Before  the  trumpet's  blast ! 

Dismayed  the  sun  in  terror  stood, 

And  shuddered  at  his  pall ! 
I  saw  his  splendors  turn  to  blood, 
When  trembling  o'er  the  heaving  flood, 
He  veiled  him  in  his  gory  hood, 

And  down  I  saw  him  fall ! 

The  moon  and  stars  in  dire  dismay, 

'Reft  of  their  borrowed  light, 
Fled  from  th'  appalling  scene  away, 
For  ever  quenched  each  brilliant  ray, 
Chaotic  darkness  veiled  their  day, 

And  wrapped  their  beams  in  night ! 

Then  'midst  a  light,  which  cast  no  shade, 

A  throne  was  seen  afar, 
On  which  One  sat,  who  all  things  made  ; 
Resplendent  rainbows  round  him  played — 
His  head  with  diadems  arrayed, 

Decked  with  the  morning  star ! 


143 


144  THE     END     OF     TIME. 

Eternal  youth  beamed  in  his  eye, 

His  chariot  rolled  beneath  ! 
Hailstones  and  coals  of  fire  did  fly, 
The  symbols  of  his  majesty, 
Borne  onward,  loud  and  fearfully, 
By  his  almighty  breath  ! 

At  his  rebuke,  heaven,  earth  and  sea, 

Affrighted  fled  away  ! 
The  small,  the  great,  the  bond,  the  free, 
Each  soul  from  all  eternity, 
Assembled  at  his  firm  decree, 

Stood  there — in  wild  dismay  I 

Around  he  cast  his  eyes  of  fire — 
Ah  me!  what  lightnings  gleamed  ! 

"  Depart,"  said  he,  "  depart — retire — 

Ye  who  my  love  could  ne'er  desire ; 

Go  wail  for  ever — nor  expire, 
Where  mercy  never  beamed !" 

Then,  with  a  sweet  angelic  look 
No  language  can  portray, 

Smiling,  he  closed  the  sacred  book ; 

O'er  burning  worlds  his  saints  he  took, 

While  nature  from  her  moorings  shook, 
Bore  them  to  endless  day  ! 


THE    EXILE.— GEN.  28. 


Far  from  his  home,  sad  and  alone, 

An  Exile  laid  his  weary  head 
Upon  the  cold  and  harden'd  stone, 

The  sky  his  covering,  earth  his  bed. 
He  drcam'd  he  saw  a  vision  bright, 

Of  shining  seraphs  hand  in  hand, 
With  radiant  brows  and  wings  of  light, 

Descending  from  the  spirit  land. 

So  beauteous  was  each  fairy  form, 

So  heavenly  sweet  their  faces  shone, 
The  Exile  felt  his  heart  grow  warm, 

Though  pillow'd  on  the  earth's  cold  stone. 
A  brilliant  pathway  arch'd  the  sky, 

And  wandering  spirits  filled  the  air— 
Flitting  around,  below,  on  high, 

Ethereal  forms,  divinely  fair, 

Who,  one  by  one,  came  from  above 

On  emerald  steps,  and  reach'd  the  earth ; 
Told  him  of  Jesus,  and  his  love, 

And  sung  the  story  of  his  birth. 
Above  the  radiant  steps  his  eye 

Beheld  a  form  too  bright  to  view; 
A  voice  of  love  and  majesty, 

Broke  forth  in  words  for  ever  true. 

As  dew  descends,  the  blessings  fell 
Upon  the  Exile,  and  his  race  ; 

The  angelic  choir  with  rapture  swell 
Their  harps,  and  holier  grows  the  place. 


"Fear  not,  my  son,"  the  Almighty  said, 
"  Arise,  pursue  your  onward  way ;  " 

The  Exile  raised  his  wilder'd  head, 
And  hail'd  with  joy  a  two-fold  day. 

The  rocky  pillow  he  remov'd, 

Rear'd  it  on  high,  a  beacon  bright; 
The  oil  divine  around  it  flow'd, 

And  lit  a  Bethel  with  its  light. 
Thus  he  who  laid  him  down  oppress'd, 

Without  a  bed,  without  a  home, 
Arose,  with  heavenly  influence  bless'd, 

Possessor  of  a  princely  dome. 


STANZAS. 


Written  on  the  15tb  February,  1843,  when  the  Eanh  was  covered  with  Snow. 


OFT  have  I  lingered,  as  the  setting  sun 

Cast  his  rich  beams  across  the  dreamy  west, 
Watched  the  lone  stars,  as  gleaming  one  by  one, 

They  shone  like  diamonds  throned  on  beauty's  breast. 
Pleased  have  I  gazed  upon  the  verdant  grove, 

Where  the  young  violet  rears  its  timid  head  ; 
Viewed  the  pale  moon  through  fields  of  ether  rove, 

Throwing  her  cold  beams  o'er  the  slumb'ring  dead. 

I've  seen,  when  storms  have  ceased,  the  blooming  flowers, 
Dripping  with  rain-drops,  sparkle  in  the  beams 

Of  cloudless  sunshine,  and  the  roseate  bowers 
Mirror  their  beauties  in  the  murmuring  streams  ; 


147 


Beheld  the  bow  of  promise  arch  the  sky, 

Spanning  creation  with  its  orient  arms ; 
Gazed  on  its  colors,  seen  them  fade  and  die, 

And  disappear  with  all  their  magic  charms. 

On  scenes  like  these,  how  often  have  I  gazed, 

'Till  my  rapt  spirit  struggled  to  express 
My  inward  feelings,  and  my  lips  have  praised, 

In  words  of  transport,  nature's  loveliness  ! 
But  never — never — on  my  raptured  eye 

Appeared  a  more  magnificent  display, 
Than  when  each  tree  and  shrub  beneath  the  sky 

Were  capp'd  in  crystal,  and  the  orb  of  day 

Rose  glorious  from  his  watery  bed,  and  shook 

His  bright  effulgence  over  hill  and  dale, 
O'er  lakes  and  ponds,  and  every  winding  brook, 

Mountains,  and  woodlands,  cliffs  and  spangled  vale. 
When  leafless  trees  their  pointed  heads  raised  high, 

Like  emerald  spires  amid  the  sun's  fierce  light ; 
And  arbors  hung  with  gems  of  richest  dye, 

Like  airy  castles,  sparkled  on  the  sight. 

When  'round  the  shrubs,  the  snow-wreaths  gently  wound 

Their  feathery  arms,  tipping  with  silver  cress, 
Each  little  twig,  and  every  leaflet  crowned 

Gleamed  like  a  Fairy  in  her  gala  dress. 
A  hymn  of  praise  the  joyous  earth  sent  forth, 

Exulting  sang  as  on  her  natal  morn  ; 
Nor  looked  she  fairer  in  her  primal  birth, 

When  man  exulted  over  woman  born. 

No  brighter  flow'rets  decked  their  bridal  bower 
In  Paradise,  than  those  which  gleamed  around  ; 

No  sweeter  birds  carrolled  on  shrub  or  flower, 
Than  the  young  snow-birds  on  the  frosty  ground. 

Fancy  ne'er  formed  a  sight  more  truly  grand, 
Nor  mind  conceived  a  more  resplendent  scene, 


U8  PAEE.NT'S    LOVE. 

Than  the  fair  morning,  when  o'er  sea  and  land 
The  ice-king  rode,  adorned  in  silver  sheen. 

Like  human  joys  the  splendid  frostwork  fled  ! 

Fled  'neath  the  power  that  formed  its  brightest  ray  : 
And  thus,  I've  marked— how  oft !  the  early  dead 

Sparkle  the  brightest  at  life's  closing  day. 
And  Hopes  like  haloes  on  each  mimic  flower, 

Dancing  in  sunbeams,  fleeting  as  they're  vain, 
Die  on  the  vision — wither  in  an  hour, 

Like  the  fair  morning  with  its  brilliant  train. 


PARENT'S    LOVE. 


THERE  is  in  a  parent's  heart  a  holy  throb  of  undying  love  toward 
children,  which  commences  with  their  earliest  existence,  and  con- 
tinues to  vibrate  until  the  life-blood  rushes  to  its  last  citadel.  Nothing 
can  still  it — nothing  subdue  it — coldness,  contempt,  ingratitude  nor 
neglect  can  blunt  it ;  it  beats  on — cruelty  nor  disgrace  can  chill  it — 
it  burns  the  brighter  ;  for  pity  swells  the  tide  of  love,  and  quickens 
the  pulsations.  And  should  the  arm  be  raised  to  take  the  life  of  the 
parent — the  last  sigh  will  breathe  forgiveness,  the  look  of  love  will 
linger  upon  the  dagger's  point,  and  as  it  enters  the  bosom,  a  prayer 
will  ascend  for  the  murderer.  Wo,  wo  to  those  parents  whose  hearts 
are  pierced  by  Absaloms,  for  they,  like  Israelite's  smitten  king,  are, 
indeed,  sufferers. 


How  often  was  the  monarch  bowed, 
Beneath  the  chastening  rod  ! 

How  like  a  sea  his  sorrows  flowed, 
Although  beloved  of  God  ! 


PARENT'S    LOVE.  149 

But  never  did  the  wild  waves  roll 

So  high  as  when  his  son, 
As  with  an  arrow,  pierced  his  soul — 

His  Absalom,  his  own. 

'Twas  hard  to  flee,  when  love  was  new, 

His  brow  with  garlands  wreathed — 
When  'round  him  kings  and  nobles  drew, 

As  music  o'er  them  breathed. 

'Twas  hard  to  rend  from  friendship's  charms, 

And  to  the  desert  hie — 
To  leave  his  throne,  'mid  beauty's  arms, 

And  in  the  damp  cave  lie. 

'Twas  hard  to  hear  the  cruel  taunts 

Fall  from  a  father's  tongue, 
Amid  the  wild  wood's  dismal  haunts, 

As  on  his  spear  he  hung. 

When  wearied  with  the  battle  strife, 

'Twas  hard,  when  he  returned, 
To  find  no  children,  home,  or  wife — 

HLs  house,  and  temples  burned. 

'Twas  hard,  (when  from  Gilboa's  top 

A  wail  broke  on  his  ear,) 
To  know  the  pride  of  Gibeon's  vale 

Had  fallen  by  the  spear. 

Sure  this  was  hard — but  mockery  to 

The  ills  which  flowed  from  one, 
Who  from  his  veins  his  life-blood  drew — 

His  Absalom,  his  son  ! 

His  hope,  his  pride,  his  light,  his  joy — 
Who  climbed,  with  infant  glee, 


150  PARENT'S    I.OVK. 

A  beautiful,  young,  lovely  boy, 
Upon  his  father's  knee. 

To  know  this  child,  beloved  and  fair, 

Led  on  the  hostile  foe, 
Was  more  than  David's  heart  could  bear — 

He  sank  beneath  his  wo. 

Keen  was  the  pang  the  monarch  felt — 
'Twas  agony,  'twas  grief — 

At  mercy's  altar  if  he  knelt, 
Could  it  afford  relief? 

Could  it  afford  relief  to  pray 
The  foe  might  from  him  run  ? 

What  could  a  tender  father  say  ? 
Their  leader  was  his  son ! 

How  soft  and  kind  was  his  request, 
Should  they  his  Absalom  find  : 

"  Be  sure  no  arrow  pierce  his  breast — 
No  anguish  fill  his  mind." 

He  saw  him  in  no  other  light 

But  beautiful  as  morn, 
When  first  Aurora,  dazzling,  bright, 

Illumes  the  spangled  lawn. 

Oh  !  it  was  agony  intense, 
To  think  that  beauteous  boy, 

Who  should  have  been  his  firm  defence, 
Should  he  himself  destroy. 

The  battle  came — the  fight  drew  on — 
The  foeman  raised  the  spear — 

And  slew  the  pride  of  David's  house, 
His  son,  beloved  and  dear. 


The  tidings  came — his  heart  was  weak- 
Loud  was  the  spirit's  moan, — 

No  other  language  could  he  speak 
But  "Absalom,  my  son." 

"  Oh  !  Absalom — my  son,"  he  cried — 
"  Oh  !  Absalom — my  own — 

Oh  !  would  to  heaven  for  thee  I'd  died — 
Oh  !  Absalom,  my  son  1" 


There  is  a  world  where  no  lament 
From  parent's  heart  is  heard — 

A  world  of  peace,  and  calm  content, 
Where  no  rude  foe  is  feared. 

Where  no  kind  father's  heart  will  yearn 

Over  a  fallen  son — 
But  one  Amen  will  echo  while 

Eternal  ages  run. 


LINES 

WRITTEN  on  reading  an  account,  in  the  New  World,  of  the  inter- 
view of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Lester  with  Drs.  C.  and  B.,  together  with  a  pri- 
vate letter  relating  to  Lord  Byron's  death. 


I  MUSED,  until  my  beating  heart 
Fluttered  within  its  narrow  home  ; 

As  if  with  all  of  life  'twould  part, 
O'er  Europe's  classic  soil  to  roam. 


152  LINES. 

There  ramble  o'er  each  hill  and  dale, 

Where  Moore,  and  Burns,  and  Cowper  strayed — 

Where  Milton  wandered  in  the  vale — 
Where  Young  reposed  'neath  evening's  shade. 

t  On  Scotia's  heights  where  Wallace  fought, 

Where  Oscar  of  Malvina  sang, 
Where  chivalry  by  knights  was  taught, 

Through  groves  where  oft  their  helmets  rang. 
'Mid  forests,  where  in  feudal  days, 

Grand  ancient  castles  towered  on  high  ; 
Where  beauty  heard  the  songs  of  praise 

And  owned  the  triumph  in  her  eye. 

See  Abbotsford,  where  vapors  float 

At  evening  'round  fair  Melrose  bright ; 
Enter  the  place  where  Scott  once  wrote, 

And  view  it  "  by  the  pale  moon's  light." 
Survey  the  tombs,  wherein  the  forms 

Repose,  where  once  fierce  passions  thrilled, 
All  heedless  of  time's  gathering  storms, 

The  pulse  of  life  for  ever  stilled ! 

Mingle  with  that  inspired  throng, 

Whose  notes  have  echoed  o'er  the  sea, 
O'er  mountains,  glens,  and  groves  among, 

In  strains  of  witching  melody. 
Oh,  could  I  converse  hold  with  those, 

Whose  spirits  in  their  writings  burn, 
And  hear  them  speak  in  verse  and  prose, 

Each  as  they  felt,  each  in  his  turn. 

Heard  them  converse  of  Wyoming, 
Until  the  poet's  heart  was  thrilled  ; 

With  feelings  which  were  slumbering, 
Within  a  breast  which  time  had  chilled. 

Have  seen  the  kindliness  of  his  eye, 
As  of  our  native  land  he  spoke  ; 


163 


Beheld  the  smile  of  ecstacy, 

The  gush  of  feeling  and  the  look— 

Enjoy'd  that  feast,  that  flow  of  soul, 

That  blissful  hour  when  memories  welled 
When  feelings  they  could  ne'er  control, 

Within  their  bosoms  rose  and  swelled — 
Not  viands  culled  from  India's  grove, 

Not  goblets  sparkling,  full  and  free, 
Had  yielded  what  I  so  much  love 

As  that  rich  feast  of  imagery. 

No  wonder  age  forgot  its  years, 

Time,  standing  still,  was  lost  in  bliss  ; 
No  wonder  smiles  blended  with  tears, 

In  such  a  rapturous  hour  as  this. 
Unhappy  Greece,  I'll  think  of  thee, 

When  on  his  couch  a  warrior  lay  ; 
Whose  soul  was  formed  of  poetry, 

And  rashly  threw  that  soul  away. 

A  child  of  song,  but  rightly  tuned, 

Had  swept  the  harp  with  angel's  skill ;  , 
With  heaven,  not  earth,  had  he  communed, 

Had  led  all  captive  at  his  will. 
Oh,  write  again,  immortal  bard  ! 

Once  more  my  waking  soul  inspire  ; 
Sweet  is  thy  lay,  rich  have  we  fared — 

Oh,  sweep  again  thy.  ^breathing  lyre. 


154 


TO   E ,   ON   HIS    BIRTHDAY. 


THIS  is  thy  natal  morn  !  my  muse  awake  ! 

Sing  of  the  past,  a  bright  bewildering  train  ; 
One  kasty  glance,  oh  !  let  my  spirit  take, 

And  taste  gone  pleasures,  o'er  and  o'er  again. 

This  is  thy  natal  morn  !  the  tears  which  start, 
Flow  forth  in  fond  remembrance  of  thy  charms  ; 

When  at  life's  fountain,  cradled  on  my  heart, 
Thou  slep'st  a  sweet  young  cherub  in  my  arms. 

On  time's  broad  ocean  thou  hast  launched,  my  boy, 
Thy  bark  upon  the  changing  tide  of  Fate  ; 

At  its  full  flood,  oh !  may  it  be  thy  joy, 
To  catch  the  breeze,  and  sail  with  heart  elate. 

O'er  rocks  and  quicksands,  may  you  safely  glide, 
Virtue  your  helmsman  ;  while  each  flowing  sail 

In  snowy  whiteness,  o'er  the  rippling  tide, 

Wafts  thee,  my  boy,  before  the  prosperous  gale. 

This  is  thy  natal  morn  !  memories  awake  ! 

Wake  with  a  power  no  mortal  hand  can  stay  ! 
The  pulses  in  the  general  joy  partake, 

And  throb  for  thee,  the  loved  one  far  away  ! 

'Tis  from  thy  mother,  she  who  gave  thee  birth, 
This  morning  lay,  fresh  from  the  minstrel's  hand, 

Seeks  her  loved  son,  'mid  scenes  of  youthful  mirth, 
And  warns  of  rocks  on  pleasure's  witching  strand. 

Should  your  frail  bark,  by  storms  and  tempests  driven, 
Fly  for  a  shelter  to  some  fairy  isle  ; 


TO     E ,     ON      HIS     BIRTHDAY. 

Trust  not  the  imagery  which  paints  its  heaven, 
Nor  list — though  music  should  each  hour  beguile. 

Flee,  flee  the  Syren,  whose  seductive  breath 

Would  lure  thy  feet  from  virtue's  heavenly  way ; 

Her  steps  lead  down  to  everlasting  death  ! 
Her  pleasures  sicken,  and  her  smiles  betray ! 

Oh  !  flee  her  charms,  as  you  would  flee  a  foe 

Who  deals  out  darkness  which  no  ray  can  pierce  ; 

Her  halls  loud  echo  with  the  wails  of  wo, 

Wrung  forth  from  souls  replete  with  passions  fierce  ! 

Oh !  shun  the  wine-cup !    Though  it  sparkle  bright, 
'Tis  a  false  meteor,  kindling  its  own  day — 

Shut,  s.hut  thine  eyes  on  the  bewildering  sight — 
Its  flash  is  horror  nothing  can  portray  ! 

Oh !  think,  when  tempted  by  the  fatal  snares, 
Of  thy  loved  mother — sisters — brothers  dear — 

Think  of  thy  sainted  father's  brow,  and  cares 
To  wrest  from  either  one  embittered  tear ! 

Could'st  thou,  my  son,  disturb  our  social  hearth 
Where,  when  the  winter  winds  howl  sad  and  drear — 

Memories  awake  to  sense  of  joy  and  mirth, 
When  thou  wert  present,  with  thy  voice  so  dear  ? 

This  is  thy  natal  day  !     So  live,  my  boy, 
That  we  may  meet,  as  on  that  happy  morn, 

When  cheerful  voices  sang  in  notes  of  joy 
The  rapturous  lay,  another  son  is  born  ! 

So  live.,  that  when  for  ever  on  thy  eye 

All  earthly  scenes  shall  fade  and  disappear, 

The  bright'ning  splendors  of  an  opening  sky 
May  light  thee  upward  from  this  dusky  sphe  re. 


156 


STANZAS. 


"  Joys  departed  never  to  return- 
How  bitter  the  remembrance !" 


DAYS  of  rapture  will  you  never 
Bring  your  light  to  me  again, 

Why  should  fate  such  fond  hearts  sever  ? 
Hope's  bright  visions  all  be  slain  ? 

As  the  brilliant  hues  of  even 
Fade  beneath  th'  autumnal  sky, 

Hours  to  love  and  friendship  giv'n, 
Soonest  from  our  presence  fly. 

Would  they  like  spring's  early  blossoms 
Bloom  again  when  winter  's  o'er, 

Waft  their  fragrance  o'er  our  bosoms, 
Bring  again  their  magic  power. 

Bring  those  hours  when  on  us  gazing, 
Eyes  of  love,  with  kindness  filled  ; 

Hours  of  transport,  when  embracing, 
Every  pulse  with  rapture  thrill'd. 

Hours,  how  transient,  vain  and  fleeting, 
Like  the  hues  of  closing  day, 

When  the  wreaths  of  vapor  meeting, 
Brighten  as  they  pass  away. 

Who  that  ever  gazed  on  nature, 
Mountain,  river,  lake  and  stream, 

But  has  seen  in  every  .feature, 

Glimpses  of  his  life's  young  dream. 


STANZAS.  157 

As  the  shadows  from  the  mountains, 

Tremble  o'er  the  dewy  plain  ; 
So,  those  joys  from  life's  young  fountains, 

Prove  like  shadows,  false  and  vain. 

Rivers,  from  their  various  sources, 

Sweep  o'er  chasms  deep  and  wide  ; 
Bearing  onward  on  their  courses, 

Youth  and  beauty  with  their  tide. 

Lakes,  with  their  pellucid  bosom, 

Slumber  in  repose  to-day, 
Ere  to-morrow  all 's  confusion, 

Tempests  o'er  their  surface  play. 

Thus  the  babbling  brooks  of  summer, 

Laughing  in  their  sources  run  ; 
Cheering  mortals  with  their  murmur, 

Parched  beneath  a  burning  sun. 

Such  is  life,  that  we  can  never 
Bring  again  our  youth's  bright  bloom  ; 

Joys  departed,  cease  for  ever : 
Cradles  rock  us  to  the  tomb. 


STANZAS. 


OH,  there  are  hours  to  mortals  given, 

When  past  enjoyments  roll ; 
When  memories,  like  the  dews  of  heaven, 

Fall  gently  on  the  soul. 


158  STANZAS. 

When  voices  on  the  gusty  breeze, 
Warble  their  plaintive  notes  ; 

And  through  the  waving  forest  trees, 
Mysterious  music  floats. 

When  the  pale  moon's  pellucid  rays 

Illume  the  spangled  grove, 
They  bring  the  bliss  of  other  days, 

The  first  sweet  dream  of  love. 

When  the  tempestuous  waves  of  life 
Were  hidden  from  the  sight, 

Then  the  young  heart,  with  pleasures  rife, 
Drank  in  each  fond  delight. 

When  every  smile  found  free  access 

Within  the  trusting  heart, 
Each  look  of  love,  each  kind  caress, 

Fresh  rapture  did  impart. 

When  nature  wore  one  beauteous  wreath 

Of  flowers  divinely  fair, 
And  spring,  with  her  sweet  vernal  breath, 

Perfumed  the  ambient  air ; 

When  nought  in  this  cold  world  was  seen, 
But  what  was  dazzling  bright, 

No  fairy  hand  then  raised  the  screen, 
To  show  how  false  its  light. 

When  smiling  landscapes  spread  their  arms, 
Decked  with  ambrosial  flower?, 

Wooing  the  lovely  by  their  charms 
To  revel  in  their  bowers — 

Oh,  who  does  not,  as  memories  wake, 
Feel  each  pulsation  move  1 


159 


What  hearts  but  in  past  joys  partake — 
Past  scenes  of  early  love  ? 

How  often  'round  th'  impassioned  soul, 
This  magic  spell  will  twine  ; 

Remembrance,  'neath  its  soft  control, 
Kindles  on  Nature's  shrine. 


TIME. 


I  ASKED  the  limpid  streamlet  as  it  ran 
In  solemn  silence  o'er  its  pebbly  bed, 

If  e'er  the  mighty  ocean  it  would  reach  ? 
"  I  shall  in  time,"  it  murmuringly  said, 

Then  kissed  the  sod,  by  which  its  course  was  led, 
And  gently  breathed  "  farewell." 

I  hailed  the  mighty  river  as  it  rolled 

In  swelling  billows,  urged  by  wind  and  storm, 

And  asked  if  in  the  basin  of  the  sea 

It  e'er  would  lose  its  devious  winding  form  ? 

"  I  shall,"  it  said,  then  gayly,  wild  and  free, 
Press'd  to  its  ocean  grave. 

To  the  deep  roaring  cataract,  as  it  poured 

In  thundering  fierceness  down  the  steep  descent, 

O'er  pointed  rocks,  'mid  chasms  deep,  I  called, 
And  asked  if  e'er  its  fury  would  be  spent  ? 

"  It  will,"  was  echoed,  "  when  the  globe  is  rent, 
And  time  shall  be  no  more." 


160  "WHAT     IS     YOUK     LIFE?" 

I  asked  the  wide  spread  ocean,  aa  it  leapt 
In  mighty  undulations  to  the  shore, 

If  e'er  in  peace  its  surges  would  be  hushed, 
And  calm  succeed  its  everlasting  roar  ? 

"  Time  will  do  all,"  it  said,  then  wildly  rushed 
To  kiss  the  arching  sky. 

"  Who  is  this  Time  ?"  I  asked,  and  turning  'round 
He  stood  before  me  in  his  dread  attire, 

His  scythe  and  sickle  gleamed  before  my  eye, 
The  earth  his  home,  the  tolling  bell  his  lyre  ! 

Fearful  I  asked,  "Old  Time,  wilt  thou  e'er  die?" 

Starting  he  shook  his  powerful  arm  on  high, 
And  cried,  "  Eternity  !" 


WHAT   IS    YOUR   LIFE?' 


MAN'S  life  is  like  a  summer  flower, 

Which  opens  on  the  sight ; 
Illusive  as  the  meteor's  power, 

And  fleeting  as  its  light. 

-i!  *r>:^<iJ«fV*S;f 
He  lives,  exists,  and  dreams  awhile, 

Serene  his  youth's  bright  day  ; 
He  revels  in  another's  smile, 

And  glides  from  earth  away. 

For  true  it  is,  decay  will  come, 
The  mind  and  form  grow  frail ; 

Man  lives  a  wanderer  'round  his  home, 
A  stranger  in  his  vale. 


"WHAT     IS     YOUR     LIFE?" 

His  voice,  his  name,  hia  memory  dies ; 

Time,  with  his  withering  power, 
Scatters  his  hopes  like  mists  that  rise 

In  morning's  golden  hour. 

The  sweetest  pleasures  here,  he  knows, 

Yield  no  substantial  bliss  ; 
Care  from  his  choicest  comfort  flows, 

And  wormwood  's  in  his  kiss. 

Yet  there  is  something  strangely  bright 

Allures  his  spirit  here  : 
Something,  which  through  the  darkest  night, 

Illumes  this  dusky  sphere. 

But  oh  !  how  faint  e'en  that  one  spot, 
When  he,  with  faith's  clear  eye, 

Looks  upward,  'till  the  world  's  forgot, 
To  joys  which  never  die. 

Joys,  which  will  ever  in  their  flight 

Grow  brighter  on  his  soul ; 
Arise,  expand,  entrance,  delight, 

As  ceaseless  ages  roll. 

Then  if  his  life  be  like  a  flower, 

There  is  a  spark,  divine, 
More  brilliant  grows  with  every  hour, 

As  days  and  suns  decline. 


162 


TO    MRS.   LYDIA    JANE    PIERSON. 


SWEETEST  of  minstrels  !  I  followed  thy  theme, 

'Till  my  muse  in  her  flight  caught  a  wandering  beam 

Of  the  "  Spirit  of  Beauty,"  in  mantle  of  light, 

Gilding  the  earth,  and  the  sea  in  her  flight ; 

Gleaming  in  splendor,  o'er  woodlands  and  bowers, 

Streaming  in  brightness  o'er  castles  and  towers  ; 

Resting  on  roses,  on  zephyrs,  which  play, 

On  the  young  spires  of  grass,  in  their  jewel'd  array  ; 

In  mists  of  the  morning  which  curl  on  the  breeze, 

Wreathing  fantastically  over  the  tress. 

On  the  storm-clouds  which  gather,  in  the  lightning's  red  flash, 

On  the  wild  waves  of  ocean — in  thunder's  deep  crash  ! 

"  Spirit  of  Beauty  .'"  thou'rt  everywhere — 

A  ray  of  Omnipotence — floating  in  air  ! 

Placing  God's  image  on  all  we  behold, 

From  dew  drops  to  mountains,  majestic  and  bold. 

On  infants,  on  manhood,  and  silvery  age, 

On  peasant  and  noble,  unlettered  and  sage, 

On  the  spirit  which  yields  to  the  Saviour's  control, 

When  the  seal  of  redemption  is  stamped  on  the  soul ; 

On  the  saint,  as  he  cheerfully  yields  up  his  breath, 

When  falling  asleep  in  the  cold  arms  of  death  ; 

On  the  lovely  and  young  who,  with  purpose  divine, 

Mingle,  Hymen  invoking,  their  vows  at  his  shrine. 

All  these  have  I  seen  in  their  beauty  and  power, 

And  gazed  on  the  landscape  at  twilight's  soft  hour  ; 

On  the  earth  in  her  pride  ;  on  the  dark  rolling  sea  ; 

On  the  clouds  which  at  sunset  hang  over  the  lea ; 

On  the  hues  of  the  rainbow  which  arched  the  blue  sky, 

'Till  its  beauties  have  faded  and  died  on  my  eye. 

But  ne'er  did  the  "  Spirit  of  Beauty"  appear 

So  strikingly  perfect  as  when  on  the  bier 


S  U  M  M  E  R     S  II O  \V  E  E  .  163 

It  rested  on  one,  who,  beloved  and  true, 

Departed  too  soon  for  his  friends  from  their  view. 

Her  stamp  on  his  beautiful  brow  she  had  set, 

I  gazed  on  it  then,  and  I  gaze  on  it  yet — 

And  ever  will  think,  'till  my  life  shall  depart, 

How  beauty  sat  throned  on  that  young  faithful  heart  ! 


WRITTEN   AFTER   A   SUMMER   SHOWER, 


How  glorious  is  the  hour, 

How  beautiful  the  scene, 
When  wash'd  by  summer's  gentle  shower, 

Fair  Nature's  robes  of  green. 

The  clouds,  like  drifted  snow, 

In  wild  confusion  lie  ; 
The  thunders,  murmuring  long  and  low, 

In  the  dim  distance  die. 

Lightning,  whose  fitful  fires 

Shot  upward  on  the  sight, 
Displaying,  mid  their  arrowy  sp'res, 

A  panorama  bright. 

Those  lightnings  from  afar, 

Flash  faintly  o'er  the  deep  ; 
Hushed  is  the  elemental  war, 

Rocked  by  its  power  asleep. 

O'er  the  ethereal  height, 
Far  as  the  eye  can  see, 


164  SUMMER      8HOWER. 

The  rainbow  throws  her  hallowed  light. 
And  spans  the  earth  and  sea. 

The  calm,  pellucid  stream, 
How  tranquil  is  its  rest — 

Lovely  as  the  young  infant's  dream, 
Pillowed  on  beauty's  breast. 

How  sweet  the  vernal  grove, 
The  wooded  hills,  the  vale ; 

Bright  insects  through  the  branches  rove, 
And  sport  upon  the  gale. 

Amid  the  sylvan  bowers, 
The  balmy  zephyr  floats  ; 

And  birds  amid  the  blushing  flowers 
Warble  th^ir  thrilling  notes. 

On  such  a  scene  as  this, 

Unmoved,  can  mortals  gaze  ? 

Is  there  a  soul  but  tastes  the  bliss 
Which  nature  here  displays  ? 

Ye  votaries  of  power, 

Ye  worshippers  of  gold, 
Be  yours  the  pleasures  of  an  hour — 

Let  mine  be  nature  bold  ! 


Where  nature  holds  her  throne, 
Let  me  commune  with  Him, 

Whose  power  demands  our  praise  al 
Whose  glories  never  dim. 


165 


TO  THE  HON.  JOHN  C.  CALHOUN, 


THE  FRIEND  AND  CLASSMATE  OF  REV.  J.  V.  8. 


TRTTE,  we  are  strangers  here, 

Earth's  children  wander  wide  ; 
Some  wear  a  smile,  and  some  a  tear, 

As  down  the  stream  they  glide. 
Thine  is  the  laurell'd  brow — 

And  in  thy  soul-lit  eye 
Is  seen  the  firmness  of  the  vow 

That's  register'd  on  high. 

Amid  the  wise  and  great, 

Unmov'd  by  fortune's  frown, 
Thine  is  the  eloquent  debate, 

That  awes  th'  opposer  down. 
For  thee,  immortal  fame 

A  fadeless  wreath  has  twin'd  ; 
Our  country  knows  no  higher  name, 

Nor  boasts  a  nobler  mind. 

Within  the  humble  vale 

Of  sweet  domestic  love, 
Thy  friend,  before  the  gentle  gale, 

Speeds  to  his  rest  above. 
Oft  has  his  bark  been  driv'n 

By  winds  and  raging  seas  ; 
But  every  wave  shall  waft  to  heav'n, 

And  God  direct  the  breeze. 

If  in  the  Congress  hall, 
Or  in  the  vine-clad  bower, 


THE      SHIPWRECK. 

Death's  summons  on  thy  ear  shall  fall, 

Sweet  be  thy  parting  hour  ; 
And  sweet  thy  meeting,  too, 

On  that  unbounded  shore, 
Where  faithful  friends,  belov'd  and  true, 

Embrace  to  part  no  more. 


THE    SHIPWRECK. 


Urcx  the  summit  of  a  towering  rock, 

Whose  base  was  wreath'd  by  Ocean's  dashing  waves, 
Where  fierce  tornadoes,  with  a  stunning  shock, 

Reechoed  hoarsely  o'er  the  gaping  caves, 
Alone  I  stood ;  while,  like  a  wandering  star, 

The  storm-king  stalked,  a  tall  and  shadowy  form  ; 
Musing,  I  hail'd  the  elemental  war, 

And  loved  the  music  of  the  driving  storm. 

^olus  loosed  his  warring  winds,  and  loud 

The  wild  blast  shriek'd  amid  the  waving  surge  ; 
The  lightnings  blazed  upon  the  blackening  cloud, 

And  muttering  thunders  chimed  a  mournful  dirge. 
From  coral  palaces  the  sea-nymphs  leapt, 

Their  forms  encircled  with  phosphoric  fire  ; 
Mingled  their  voices  as  the  wind-god  swept 

His  fearful  blast  o'er  Ocean's  thundering  lyre. 

Old  Neptune,  on  his  throne  of  clouds  enroll'd, 
Rode  dauntless  forth  above  the  raging  main ; 

Rein'd  his  proud  steeds,  impatient,  fierce,  and  bold, 
Then  drove  them  forward  through  the  ethereal  plain. 


THE     SHIPWRECK. 

Amazed  I  looked  upon  the  wide  spread  sea, 
When,  in  the  distance,  lo  I  a  sail  I  spied, 

Urging  its  way  toward  the  treacherous  lea, 
Onward  impell'd  by  the  resistless  tide. 

The  breakers  high  rolled  fearfully  around, 

Lashing  the  helmless,  mastless,  found'ring  bark, 
Whose  timbers  parting  with  a  creaking  sound, 

Were  pitching,  tossing,  'mid  the  mad  wakes  dark ! 
Borne  on  the  breeze,  a  shriek  of  wild  despair, 

Deeper  and  louder  than  the  sweeping  storm, 
Assail'd  my  ear.     Oh,  God,  what  sight  was  there  ! 

Upon  the  wreck  struggled  a  human  form  ! 

A  sailor  boy,  on  whose  fond  mother's  breast 

He'd  pillow'd  oft  his  fair,  young,  sunny  brow — 
In  childhood  nestled  as  a  place  of  rest ; 

How  wide  the  contrast  'twixt  that  hour  and  now  ! 
'Mid  the  dim  air,  upon  the  billow's  crest, 

He  rais'd  on  high  one  loud  and  piteous  wail ! 
Then  fainting,  sinking,  by  the  wild  waves  prest, 

His  cries  were  lost  amid  the  shivering  gale. 

Fiercely  the  billows  lashed  the  rocky  shore, 

Bearing  on  high  the  shapeless,  shatter'd  wreck ; 
When  came  the  tempest  with  an  awful  roar, 

And  rolled  the  white  waves  foaming  o'er  the  deck. 
The  sea-bird  scream'd  as  o'er  the  hulk  he  flew, 

Flapp'd  his  broad  wings,  and  hied  him  from  the  strand- 
From  the  dread  scene  I  straight  myself  withdrew, 

Thanking  my  God  my  home  was  on  the  land. 


When  morning  dawned  o'er  the  dark  blue  main, 
The  sun  broke  forth  with  bright  unclouded  ray  ; 

The  winds  retired  within  their  caves  again, 
And,  like  a  "  cradled  infant,"  quiet  lay. 


108  THE     END     OF     TIME. 

No  sound  was  heard,  save  the  low,  hollow  moan, 
Murmuring  in  mournful  numbers  o'er  the  sea  ; 

Not  e'en  an  echo  of  that  mortal  groan 
Which  closed  for  ever  nature's  agony. 


THE    END    OF   T  IM  E.— REV.  CHAP.  10. 


FBOM  opening  clouds  a  form  divine 

Descends  to  earth  in  bright  array  ; 
Resplendent  rainbows  round  him  shine, 

While  lightnings  from  the  centre  play. 
On  wings  of  storm  he  speeds  his  flight, 

From  radiant  thrones  above  the  sky, 
Through  trackless  glooms  and  fields  of  light, 

That  he  this  glimmering  orb  may  spy. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars,  are  left  behind, 

As  on  he  sails  'mid  countless  spheres, 
Among  the  planets  Earth  to  find, 

And  stop  its  swiftly  rolling  years. 
While  on  he  speeds  through  boundless  space, 

With  vision  strong,  he  kens  afar 
This  globe — a  speck  he  scarce  can  trace, 

When  view'd  from  some  more  distant  star. 

Now  he  descends  sublimely  grand, 

One  foot  he  places  on  the  sea  ; 
The  other  fix'd  on  solid  land, 

Then  loud  proclaims  his  high  decree. 
Up  to  the  heavens  his  hand  he  rears — 

While  standing  thus  on  sea  and  shore, 


WEEP     NOT      FOR     ME. 

With  voice  more  loud  than  thunder,  swears 
"  That  earth  and  time  shall  be  no  more  !" 

The  sun  grows  dim  as  evening's  hour, 

No  more  shines  forth  in  splendors  bright ; 
Extinguish'd  by  the  angel's  power, 

Goes  out  and  leaves  the  world  in  night ! 
The  globe  to  its  deep  centre  shakes, 

Heaven's  tottering  pillars  crash  and  fall ; 
All  nature's  realms  with  terror  quakes, 

Till  seas  of  flame  engulf  them  all ! 

The  waves  of  time  no  longer  roll 

O'er  wide  creation's  mighty  bound  ; 
The  sun,  the  moon,  the  distant  pole, 

All  sink  where  years  are  never  found  ! 
The  angel  from  the  scene  ascends, 

Lit  upward  by  earth's  burning  pyre  ; 
Swiftly  his  way  to  heaven  he  wends, 

And  leaves  this  world  enwrapt  in  fire  ! 


WEEP    NOT    FOR    ME.1 


WEEP  not  for  me  at  evening's  hour, 

When  gather'd  round  th'  autumnal  fire  ; 

When  in  the  dew-bespangled  bower, 
Is  heard  no  more  the  wild  bird's  lyre. 

When  on  the  light  breeze  murmuring  'round, 
There  comes  in  accents  sad  and  drear, 


170 


Expiring  summer's  mellowed  tone, 
Shed  not  for  me  one  bitter  tear. 

"  Weep  not  for  me"  when  flowers  have  fled, 
And  beauteous  shrubs  have  leafless  grown  ; 

When  from  the  altar  of  the  dead 

Is  heard  the  heart's  mysterious  moan. 

When  o'er  the  harp  love's  fingers  sweep, 
And  strains  as  sweet  as  angels  breathe 

Steal  o'er  the  soul,  then  do  not  weep, 
Nor  let  the  cypress  leaf  enwreath 

Thy  pallid  brow  ;  but  bind  the  flower 
I  loved  so  well,  and  let  it  bloom 

In  sweetness  through  each  coming  hour, 
And  waft  its  perfume  o'er  my  tomb — 

That  from  above,  as  low  I  bend 
To  catch  the  incense  rising  high, 

Springing  where  fondest  memories  blend, 
And  floating  up  the  ethereal  sky. 

My  ransom'd  soul,  more  fully  blest 
With  holier,  happier,  thoughts  of  thee, 

Shall  enter  its  eternal  rest, 

And  joyful  sing,  "  Weep  not  for  me." 


v 

TO    MRS.    S.   L.    G., 

ON  THE  BIRTH  OF  HER  FIRST 


A  SERAPH  of  beauty  has  lit  on  the  earth — 

Bright  was  the  morning  that  told  of  her  birth, 

The  angel  who  watches  o'er  innocence  here, 

On  the  young  mother's  face  saw  the  smile  and  the  tear, 

As  the  cry  of  her  first  born  came  over  her  soul, 

Like  the  songs  of  the  blest,  as  in  sweetness  they  roll. 

With  the  scroll  in  his  hand  the  angel  he  flew, 

While  the  roses  were  drinking  the  fresh  drops  of  dew. 

Recorded  the  birth  on  the  tablets  above, 

While  the  gift  was  received  at  the  fountain  of  love. 

Oh,  mother,  sweet  mother,  what  now  is  your  meed 
To  Him  who  sustain'd,  and  from  agony  freed  ? 
What  now  in  your  heart  will  you  lay  on  the  shrine  ? 
What  now  shall  arise  in  an  incense  divine  ? 

To  you  is  committed  a  treasure  from  heav'n, 
Be  sure  you  return  what  to  you  now  is  giv'n ; 
'Tis  a  spark  ef  the  Deity  kindled  on  high, 
That  mirrors  its  beams  in  the  light  of  your  eye. 
The  casket  is  yours,  but  the  jewel  enwrought 
Is  design'd  for  the  skies  and  can  never  be  bought. 

Then  remember,  dear  A e,  the  beautiful  flower 

You  now  call  your  own  may  expire  in  an  hour. 
The  young  bud  be  nipp'd  by  the  cold  frost  of  death, 
And  the  blossoms  be  blighted  that  fashion  your  wreath. 

What  return  can  you  make,  where  so  much  is  due, 
For  the  sweet  pledge  of  love  now  committed  to  you  ? 


172  SATURDAY     EVENING. 

What  now  in  your  heart  will  you  lay  on  the  shrine  ? 
Let  your  incense  be  pure,  for  the  treasure  is  thine. 

The  steps  of  the  angel  comes  soft  on  my  ear, 
He  takes— 'tis  his  own — sweet  gratitude's  tear ; 
The  gem  of  the  heart,  more  lovelier  far 
Than  the  soft  beamy  lustre  of  evening's  first  star. 
On  the  altar  it  gleams — the  heavens  above 
With  pleasure  approve  of  the  off'ring  of  love. 


REFLECTIONS   ON   SATURDAY   EVENING. 


WELL  does  my  heart  remember,  when  the  week  is  past  and  gone, 
The  scenes  of  youth's  young  morning  when  life  was  in  its  dawn  ; 
When  willows  bent  in  beauty,  and  the  roses  washed  in  dew, 
Gave  forth  their  sweet  perfumery  and  all  was  bright  and  new. 

When  the  weary  week  was  ended,  and  care  aside  was  laid, 
None  wandered  to  the  haunts  of  mirth — at  home  each  member  staid  ; 
When  a  father  called  his  family,  and  a  mother  dear  was  there, 
He  seated  with  his  Bible,  she  in  her  old  arm-chair. 

When  children,  servants  gathered  'round,  on  every  one  a  spell 
Fastening  mysteriously  on  all  as  the  slow  accents  fell, 
Selected  from  the  holy  book,  to  lead  the  thoughts  above, 
And  then  the  incense  which  arose  from  the  pure  shrine  of  love. 

How  rich  the  blessings  as  they  flowed  from  lips  which  knew  no  guile ! 
How  kind  the  look,  how  soft  the  hand,  how  sweet  the  pleasant  smile ! 
The  holy  fervor  of  those  prayers,  when  to  their  bosoms  prest, 
The  little  group  of  cherished  ones  e'er  they  retired  to  rest. 


SATURDAY     EVENING.  173 

The  blessed  Sabbath  morning,  how  hallowed  was  its  light  ! 
Early  we  hail'd  the  god  of  day  o'er  hill  and  mountain  bright ; 
Again  around  the  mercy  seat  all  knelt — my  father  prayed 
That  through  the  scenes  of  this  cold  world  each  foostep  might  be 
staid. 

Then  to  the  sanctuary  with  solemn  steps  we  came, 

Where  from  Mount  Sinai's  sacred  top  the  thunder,  smoke,  and  flame 

Came  issuing  forth,  in  loud  appeal,  till  in  the  dust  we  lay ; 

And  Calvary  opened  on  our  view,  and  chased  our  fears  away. 

Oft  at  the  twilight's  pensive  hour,  when  all  was  calm  and  still, 
And  nought  was  heard  but  gushing  sounds  from  sparkling  fount  and 

rill; 

I  stood  beside  my  father,  and  hung  upon  his  knee, 
And  read  for  him  to  sing  aloud,  "  Show  pity,  Lord,"  to  me. 

Still  to  my  heart  far  sweeter  than  Mozart's  touching  strain, 
Waking  a  thrilling  impulse  in  every  circling  vein  ; 
'Twas  a  symphony  which  angels,  delighted,  bent  to  hear, 
As  from  his  holy  soul  arose  the  notes  so  bold  and  clear. 

Oh,  hours  beloved,  they  never  can  be  blotted  from  my  mind, 
While  amid  the  lights  and  shadows  of  earthly  scenes  I  wind ; 
Now,  often  when  the  moon  rides  high  amid  her  dreamy  sphere, 
I  gaze  until  my  eyes  o'erflow  with  memory's  burning  tear. 

And  every  star  that  glimmers  in  the  deep  blue  vault  on  high, 
To  me  appear  like  windows  within  the  spangled  sky — 
Through  which  I  often  fancy  my  parents  dear  I  see, 
Happy  amid  the  "  Spirit  Land,"  waiting  to  welcome  me. 


174 


THE   CHINESE   PRISONER, 


'MiD  distant  Asia's  flowery  realms  was  one, 
By  poets  called  the  city  of  the  sun, 
Renowned  by  fame  for  interesting  tales 
Of  fairy  groves  and  dew-bespangled  vales  ; 
Of  palaces,  where  wealth  and  splendor  rolled, 
And  monarch's  thrones  glittered  with  gems  and  gold. 
Much  more  of  the  celestial  empire  had  been  known, 
But  for  the  blaze  by  Chi-Hoang-ti  blown, 
When  he  consumed  the  archives  of  the  past- 
Over  each  scene  a  veil  of  darkness  cast. 
Not  only  works,  but  authors  too,  expired, 
And  fed  the  burning  pyre  his  vengeance  fired  ; 
From  off  the  wreck  one  single  leaf  was  whirled, 
And  winged  its  way  to  this  Atlantic  world  ; 
From  which  my  muse  the  following  tale  has  won — 
The  touching  story  of  a  Chinese  son. 

In  the  famed  city,  where  the  noon-day  beams 
Pour  their  full  splendor  on  the  fairy  streams — 
Where  art  and  nature  over  follies  shine, 
The  mystic  wreaths  of  superstition  twine — 
Where  the  bright  bays  in  sparkling  beauty  glide, 
With  barks  of  pleasure  on  their  silver  tide — 
Where  music  mingles  with  the  whispering  gale, 
As  love  reclines  beneath  the  damask  sail, 
Seated  in  state,  on  the  imperial  throne, 
Over  this  flowery  empire  there  was  one, 
Who,  'mid  his  greatness,  'mid  his  pomp  and  power, 
Thought  of  the  victims  of  an  adverse  hour. 
With  God-like  soul,  the  royal  monarch — he 
Unbarred  the  doors  and  set  the  prisoners  free  ! 


THE     CHINESE     PRISONEU.  175 

Among  the  number  \tas  one  poor  old  man, 

"  Whose  days  had  dwindled  to  the  shortest  span!" 

Fifty  long  years  he  in  a  dungeon  lay, 

Secluded  from  the  cheering  light  of  day. 

With  trembling  limbs,  with  faltering  steps  and  slow, 

He  left  the  mansion  of  long  years  of  wo. 

His  eyes  were  dazzled  by  the  sun's  fierce  light, 

As  nature  burst  on  his  astonished  sight. 

The  trees,  the  brooks,  the  busy  hum  which  rose, 

Awaked  his  senses  from  their  long  repose. 

The  lofty  spires  which  tremble  on  the  eye, 

As  through  the  air  they  pierce  the  starry  sky ; 

The  blue  expanse,  where  countless  systems  roll, 

With  sweet  delight  filled  his  enraptured  soul. 

He  gazed  around  upon  th'  enchanting  scene, 

As  if  he  woke  from  some  bewildering  dream  ; 

Then  to  the  village,  where  in  youth  he  roved, 

He  bent  his  course  to  seek  the  friends  he  loved. 

His  heart  beat  quick,  his  eye  with  transport  beamed, 

From  life's  pure  fountain  tears  of  rapture  streamed. 

At  every  step  he  moved  with  lighter  feet, 

And  spread  his  hands  as  forth  he  flew  to  meet 

One  he  would  clasp  within  his  withered  arms, 

And  feel  once  more  the  force  of  friendship's  charms. 

Oh,  home  !  sweet  home  !  the  bright  abode  of  bliss  ! 

How  it  concentrates  all  of  happiness  ; 

Oh,  home  !  sweet  spot !  remembrance  lured  him  on — 

E'en  life  seemed  new,  and  age  forgot  was  gone. 

Eager  he  looked,  impatient  to  descry 

One  whom  he  knew  to  meet  his  anxious  eye  ; 

But  who  can  paint  the  anguish  of  his  soul  ? 

Who  can  conceive  what  disappointment  stole 

Within  his  bosom  ?  nothing  could  he  see 

Of  all  he  loved,  but  one  old  oaken  tree. 

He  finds  the  spot,  but  oh !  except  the  ground 

And  the  old  oak,  not  e'en  a  shrub  is  found. 


THE     CHINESE     PRISONER. 

No  radiant  landmarks  could  the  old  man  find, 
Nor  wife,  nor  children,  whom  he  left  behind. 
Nought  now  remained — oblivion's  purple  wave 
Had  swept  each  vestige  to  their  native  grave. 
Oppressed  with  wo  his  soul  in  anguish  wept, 
A  shivering  horror  o'er  his  senses  crept. 
"  Oh  !  where,"  he  cries,  "  are  now  my  former  joys, 
My  wife,  my  daughter,  and  my  infant  boys  ? 
Where  can  I  turn  to  find  the  friends  I  love  ? 
Oh  !  did  I  know,  how  gladly  would  I  rove 
To  earth's  remotest  verge,  without  a  sigh, 
Embrace  them  once,  then  lay  me  down  to  die." 

Memory  !  how  strong  was  then  thy  magic  power  ! 
How  wild  the  impulse  of  that  feverish  hour  ! 
"  Where,  where,"  he  cries,  "  where  do  the  lovely  stray  ?' 
Oh !  give  them  back,  or  take  my  life  away." 

Another  mansion  occupied  the  spot, 

Where  in  seclusion  stood  his  humble  cot, 

And  other  children  rambled  o'er  the  lawn, 

Where  once  his  sported  at  the  early  dawn. 

Against  the  oak  he  leaned  his  aching  head — 

As  if  they  wept,  the  branches  round  him  spread  ; 

And  their  green  boughs  encircled  him  once  more, 

Alone,  forsaken,  on  life's  stormy  shore. 

Prostrate  he  fell,  and  fondly  kissed  the  ground, 

And  with  his  arms  clasped  the  old  oak  round. 

"  Oh  !  precious  relic  of  departed  joys, 

How  oft -at  eve,  with  my  young  prattling  boys, 

Have  I  reclined  beneath  your  verdant  shade, 

And  cropt  the  wild  flowers  springing  from  the  glade  ; 

Twined  the  bright  wreath  round  the  raven  hair 

Of  her  I  loved — the  fairest  of  the  fair." 

All  pass  him  by,  regardless  of  his  tears, 
'Till  a  poor  beggar  on  his  knees  appears. 


THE     CHINESE     PRISONER.  177 

He  from  the  splendid  dome  was  sent  away, 
In  misery  keen  to  end  life's  dreary  day. 
Of  the  old  man  he  asked,  and  found  relief, 
Who  heard  from  him  the  story  of  his  grief. 
That  beauteous  one,  who  at  the  early  day 
Smiled  in  his  face,  as  in  his  arms  she  lay, 
Like  a  bright  cloud  at  sunset's  golden  hour, 
Faded  away  within  her  roseate  bower. 
And  those  dear  children,  cherished  buds  of  bliss, 
Who,  with  their  mother,  shared  the  envied  kiss  ; 
Far  from  their  home  with  weary  steps  had  fled, 
In  other  climes  to  beg  their  bitter  bread ! 

The  air  resounded  with  a  piteous  wail, 

As  from  the  beggar  came  the  harrowing  tale  ! 

Overwhelmed  with  anguish,  back  the  old  man  crept, 

And  at  his  sovereign's  feet  he  kneeling  wept. 

"  Oh  !  send  me  back,  great  prince,"  he  feebly  cried, 

"  All  that  I  ever  loved  on  earth  have  died. 

Oh  !  send  me  to  my  prison's  dreary  gloom, 

'Tis  light  to  me,  compared  with  morning's  bloom. 

Amid  this  city,  populous  and  great, 

I  feel  alone — no  pleasures  round  me  wait ; 

Its  splendors  mock  my  mournful  solitude, 

Its  music  sickens  and  its  smiles  intrude. 

Oh !  send  me  back,  where  from  the  light  of  day 

This  aged  form  may  daily  waste  away  ; 

Whence  I  can  ne'er  the  joys  of  others  scan, 

Tortured  to  madness  by  the  face  of  man. 

Famish  where  plenty  spreads  her  golden  store, 

And  die  with  thirst  where  living  fountains  pour. 

Send  me,  great  prince,  where  pity's  voice  can  ne'er 

Soothe  my  sad  heart  nor  dry  the  falling  tear — 

Send  me  where  darkness  wraps  its  solemn  pall 

Around  my  prison — where  the  damp  dews  fafl  ; 

Where  no  mild  beam  can  ever  wend  its  way 

To  cheer  my  dungeon  with  the  light  of  day  ; 


178  THE     CHINESE     PRISONER. 

Where  pressed  with  sorrows  and  the  weight  of  years, 
I  find  relief  amid  my  gushing  tears." 

The  monarch  wept ;  strange  feelings  fired  his  breast, 

On  his  bright  throne  the  old  man  he  caressed. 

"  Is  there  no  charm  within  this  splendid  dome 

To  compensate  for  your  once  pleasant  home  ? 

Here  you  may  range  in  gold  and  purple  dressed, 

Your  aged  form  on  gilded  divans  rest ; 

My  beauteous  queen,  your  anguish  to  appease, 

Her  baby  boys  shall  place  upon  your  knees. 

And  my  young  daughter,  from  the  curling  vine 

Fresh  grapes  shall  bring,  with  odors  all  divine. 

On  pleasure's  streams   your  days  serenely  glide, 

And  down  to  death  sail  on  its  fairy  tide."  - 

"  Ha  !"  cries  the  old  man,  "  how  your  accents  thrill, 

And  through  each  nerve  fresh  agony  distil ! 

Once  I  would  say  my  wife  and  children  too — 

Since  they  are  not,  vain  world  adieu — adieu  ! 

Quick  !  send  me  where  the  light  can  never  come, 

The  only  place  I  wish  to  call  my  home  !" 

Through  misery's  depths,  through  freedom's  sunny  hour, 

Through  the  sad  spot  where  fate  displayed  her  power — 

Through  disappointed  hopes  and  frantic  grief, 

We've  viewed  the  old  man  'mid  his  journey  brief. 

Seen  the  mysterious  power  which  nature  sways 

O'er  all  her  subjects — seen  her  winding  ways — 

The  depth  of  love — seen  how  the  holy  flame 

Burns  on  the  altar  pure  as  when  It  came. 

From  sinless  bowers,  lit  by  the  Almighty's  breath, 

To  be  extinguished  never — but  in  death. 

From  this  sad  drama,  nothing  more  is  learned 
But  that  the  old  man  to  his  prison  turned, 
Entered  within  the  dungeon's  massy  walls — 
Over  his  fate,  oblivion's  curtain  falls. 


179 

A    CHILD'S    SOLILOQUY 

AT  A  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 


THY  dust,  dear  mother,  slumbers  here, 
'Tis  to  thy  child  a  sacred  spot ; 

I'll  drop  upon  thy  grave  a  tear, 
Nor  shall  thy  tomb  be  e'er  forgot. 

Thy  love  shall  in  my  memory  dwell, 
Thy  kindness  in  my  heart  abide  ; 

Thy  virtues  bright  my  tongue  shall  tell, 
Till  I  shall  slumber  by  thy  side. 

From  the  first  hour  I  saw  the  light, 
And  hung  upon  thy  faithful  breast, 

Thou  watch'd  me  always  with  delight, 
Till  from  the  world  thou  sunk  to  rest. 

Thy  friendship  holy,  pure  and  true, 
Pursued  me  with  maternal  care  ; 

And  when  thou  bad'st  the  world  adieu, 
Gave  me  a  blessing  in  thy  prayer. 

'Tis  now  in  vain  I  seek  to  find 

In  this  wide  world  a  friend  like  thee — 

So  full  of  love,  sincere  and  kind — 
So  faithful,  true,  and  dear  to  me. 

Thy  ashes  here  shall  rest  in  peace, 
And  nought  disturb  the  sweet  repose, 

Till  sun  and  moon,  and  stars  shall  cease, 
And  God  eternal  scenes  disclose. 


180 


The  willow  o'er  thy  tomb  shall  bend, 
Its  foliage  o'er  thy  urn  shall  wave, 

'Till  Jesus  from  his  throne  shall  send 
A  voice  to  call  thee  from  the  grave. 

Then  shall  thy  lovely  form  arise — 

To  life  shall  spring  thy  mouldering  dust, 

And  soar  to  meet  him  in  the  skies, 
To  live  and  reign  among  the  just. 


HOPE. 


HOPE  !  sweet  delirium  of  the  human  breast, 
Thou  art  the  day-star  through  this  gloomy  vale, 

Thy  radiant  beams  allure  the  soul  to  rest 

When  gloom  and  darkness  human  bliss  assail. 

When  joys  depart,  and  life  's  an  aching  void — 

When  waves  of  anguish  o'er  the  bosom  roll ; 

Earth's  dearest  prospects  blighted  and  destroy'd, 

And  sorrow's  pall  enwrap  the  troubled  soul  ; 

Thine  is  the  power  to  still  the  plaintive  moan, 
To  wipe  the  tear  from  beauty's  weeping  eye, 

To  kindly  soothe  the  deep-despairing  groan, 
And  hush  to  peace  the  heart's  tumultuous  sigh. 

Thou  lived'st  eternal :  'mid  the  ills  of  life, 
'Mid  Alpine  snows  and  Afric's  burning  sand, 

'Mid  deserts  drear  with  every  danger  rife, 
In  cold  Siberia's  waste  and  sterile  land. 


A     FAMILY.  191 

When  clouds  impervious  shroud  the  mental  eye, 
And  human  ken  no  ray  of  light  can  trace  ; 

Like  God's  own  bow  of  promise  arch'd  on  high, 
Thou  clear'st  the  gloom  and  show'st  thy  lovely  face. 

Serenely  pointing  to  yon  azure  heaven, 
Thy  flowing  vestments  floating  in  the  air ; 

A  seraph  bright,  to  erring  mortals  giv'n, 
In  this  bleak  world  of  darkness  and  despair. 

Celestial  smiles  thy  opening  lips  adorn, 

Thy  upward  glance  directs  the  mourner's  eye, 

Where  clouds  disperse  to  an  eternal  morn, 
Which  breaks  resplendent  through  yon  ambient  sky. 


A  FAMILY,  OR  THE  GARDEN  OF  LOVE, 


I'D  a  beautiful  garden  inclosed, 

Adorned  with  the  choicest  of  flowers  ; 

'Mid  its  odors  I  sweetly  reposed, 
And  roved  through  its  bright  sunny  bowers. 

There  JEoli&n  harps  sweetly  played, 
The  breeze  of  the  morn  was  their  song  ; 

Pure  fountains  sprung  up  in  the  shade, 
And  murmured  in  sweetness  along. 

The  sun  in  his  splendor  arrayed, 
Illumined  my  grove  with  his  beams ; 

The  moon  as  she  pensively  strayed, 
Cast  her  silvery  light  on  the  streams. 


182  A     FAMILY. 

The  stars  in  their  loveliness  shone, 

And  peeped  from  their  chambers  above ; 

Bright  Venus  reclined  on  her  throne, 
Smiled  sweet  on  my  garden  of  love. 

I  watched  my  young  plants  with  delight, 
And  saw  them  with  transport  unfold  ; 

Like  magic  they  burst  on  my  sight, 
All  sparkling  like  rubies  in  gold. 

I  nursed  them  with  kindness  and  care, 
Watched  o'er  them  by  day  and  by  night ; 

Their  fragrance  perfumed  the  air, 
Their  beauties  enraptured  the  sight. 

I  walked  through  my  garden  of  love 
And  cherished  my  delicate  flowers  ; 

Brushed  off  the  light  dew  with  my  glove, 
And  screened  them  from  fast  falling  showers. 

There  grew  in  this  garden  of  mine 
Two  beautiful  buds  on  one  stem, 

Both  pure  as  the  dew-drops  which  shine 
And  glitter  on  earth's  diadem — 

But  transient  and  fleeting  as  morn, 
When  throned  in  her  roseate  bowers  ; 

A  blast  through  my  garden  was  borne, 
And  withered  my  beautiful  flowers. 

Those  buds  which  my  senses  regaled, 
The  sweetest  to  me  ever  given, 

Just  sparkled,  just  beamed — were  exhaled, 
Then  closed  their  bright  petals  for  heaven  ! 

In  a  favorite  vase  there  was  one, 
The  idol  and  pride  of  my  grove ; 


A     COTTAGE     SCENE. 

Like  a  bright  scintillation  it  shone, 
Then  flew  to  its  bower  above. 

If      ' 
A  dark  cloud  my  grove  overcast, 

And  shrouded  my  roses  awhile  ; 
They  shrunk  from  the  pitiless  blast, 
And  none  for  a  season  could  smile. 

But  the  cloud  in  the  distance  has  flown  ; 

The  sweet  bow  of  promise  on  high 
Around  its  bright  splendor  has  thrown, 

And  clear  is  yon  ambient  sky. 

Though  the  breezes  my  flowerets  have  blown, 
They  are  yet  in  their  purity  drest  ; 

Some  still  round  my  garden  are  strown— 
One  blossoms  away  in  the  west. 

I  look  from  my  flowers  above, 

Where  all  is  immortal  and  fair ; 
And  hope  in  those  regions  of  love, 

For  ever  to  dwell  with  them  there. 


183 


A   COTTAGE    SCENE. 


I  SAW  a  cottage  round  whose  wall 
The  rose  and  woodbine  curled, 

While  young  delight  danced  in  its  hall 
And  formed  a  little  world. 


184  A     COTTAGE     SCENE. 

I  ventured  in,  while  at  the  gate 

I  met  a  smiling  band ; 
With  rosy  cheeks  and  hearts  elate, 

Each  took  my  offered  hand, 

And  led  me  forth  with  glowing  pride, 
Toward  their  cottage  door. 

There  sat  their  parents  side  by  side — 
A  babe  played  on  the  floor. 

In  this  abode  of  earthly  bliss, 
Could  I  the  picture  draw, 

The  kindling  smile,  the  cherub  kiss, 
The  happiness  I  saw. 

Tell  how  the  mother,  in  her  arms, 
Caressed  her  darling  boy, 

And  gazed  upon  her  husband's  charms, 
Her  pride,  her  boast,  and  joy. 

Tell  how  that  father  proudly  stood, 

The  glory  of  his  name, 
The  kind,  benevolent  and  good — 

He  sought  no  higher  fame. 

On  her  he  loved  he  fondly  smiled, 
Round  him  his  children  clung, 

Domestic  bliss  his  hours  beguiled, 
And  high  its  banner  hung. 

Pleased  with  my  call,  I  took  my  leave 
With  pleasure  and  with  pain  ; 

As  they  my  blessing  did  receive, 
All  cried,  "  Do  come  again." 

Again  I  sought  the  cottage  fair, 
That  little  hallowed  spot, 


A      COTTAGE      SCENE.  185 

Their  envied  bliss  once  more  to  share, 
A  bliss  I  ne'er  forgot. 

But  all  was  changed — the  festive  hall 

With  childish  sports  no  more 
Resounded,  as  the  whirling  ball 

Fell  noiseless  on  the  floor. 

Pale  was  that  face  which  bloomed  so  bright, 

Dimmed  were  those  eyes  of  love, 
Despair  had  quenched  their  earthly  light, 

No  glimmer  seemed  to  move. 

Shrouded  and  dark  was  all  the  scene, 

Husband  nor  father  smiled  ; 
The  very  grass  which  looked  so  green, 

Now  wore  an  aspect  wild. 

Two  beauteous  boys,  their  mother's  all, 

Hung  fondly  round  her  knees, 
And  quickly  at  her  softest  call, 

Each  strove  their  best  to  please. 

No  father  came  to  welcome  me — 

The  husband  smiles  no  more — 
Weeping  and  sad,  alone  was  she, 

Beside  her  cottage  door. 

At  my  approach  she  quickly  rose, 

While  fast  the  tears  did  fall, 
And  by  her  bosom's  bursting  throes, 

I  read — I  saw  it  all. 

Short  was  her  story,  fraught  with  wo — 

Her  frame  convulsed  with  grief, 
Was  cold  as  Alpine's  frost  and  snow, 

And  trembled  like  its  leaf. 


186  A     COTTAGE     SCENE. 

Death,  in  its  course,  which  never  tires, 
Aimed  sure  his  fatal  bow  ; 

Dipt  his  keen  arrows  in  those  fires 
Which  laid  her  husband  low. 

Her  kind  protector  and  her  friend, 

The  father  of  her  boys, 
Changed  from  an  angel  to  a  fiend, 

Had  blighted  all  her  joys. 

As  morning  mists,  which  quickly  fly 
Before  the  sun's  bright  ray, 

Soon  as  he  raised  the  wine-cup  high, 
She  saw  her  hopes  decay. 

But  still  she  loved,  too  fondly  loved, 
Around  his  form  she  hung, 

And  never  wished,  and  seldom  moved, 
But  like  the  ivy  clung. 

With  his  dark  eye,  the  look  was  death ! 

He  spurned  her  from  his  arms, 
And  like  the  poisonous  upas'  breath, 

He  withered  all  her  charms. 

She  read  her  doom,  her  heart  could  feel, 
For  her  there  was  no  rest ; 

She  saw  the  accursed  chalice  steal 
Her  image  from  his  breast. 

Alone  through  many  a  dreary  night, 
When  down  the  rain  did  pour, 

She  watched  beside  her  nickering  light, 
And  listened  to  its  roar. 

With  eye  upturned  to  heaven,  her  home, 
Where  hope  her  anchor  cast ; 


187 


Trembling,  she  watched  to  see  him  come, 
Unsheltered  from  the  blast. 

Such  was  her  history  of  the  past, 
Crushed  hopes  and  joys  entombed, 

Intemperance  came  with  deadly  blast, 
Where  once  an  Eden  bloomed. 

With  this  lone  dove  I  knelt  and  prayed, 
And  her  sweet  cherub  band  ; 

Faith  took  the  offering  high,  and  laid 
It  safe  at  God's  right  hand. 

Oh !  ye  who  oft  the  wine-cup  sip, 

With  bosoms  light  as  air, 
Whene'er  you  raise  it  to  your  lip, 

Think  of  that  cottage  fair. 


LINES, 

A 

WRITTEN   DURING   A   HEAVY   FALL   OF   SNOW. 


SEE  the  flakes  of  snow  descending, 
Downward  through  the  chilling  air  ; 

See  the  trees  and  bushes  bending 
'Neath  their  snowy  wreaths  so  fair. 

O'er  the  mountains,  hills,  and  dales, 
Winter  throws  her  mantle  white  ; 

Crested  garlands  deck  the  vales, 
Glowing  like  some  diamond  bright. 


188  LINES. 

Oft  I've  gaz'd  on  such  a  scene 
In  my  childhood's  sportive  hour ; 

Fancied  many  a  fairy  queen, 
Seated  in  her  sylvan  bower. 

While  I  gaz'd  all  passed  away, 

Castles,  and  groves,  and  garlands  fair ; 

Those  beauteous  wreaths  of  snow  which  lay 
In  mystic  forms,  dissolv'd  in  air. 

And  thus  in  life's  maturer  hours, 
I've  look'd  on  those  I  lov'd  too  well, 

Form'd  in  my  mind  Elysian  bowers, 
And  placed  them  there  in  bliss  to  dwell. 

But,  like  the  snowy  landscape,  brief, 
I've  seen  my  fondest  hopes  decay, 

Friend  after  friend,  like  autumn's  leaf, 
Tremble  and  dropt,  and  passed  away  ; 

Yes,  pass'd  for  ever  from  my  sight, 
And  nought  remains  but  memory's  power  ; 

Faithful  she  brings  the  vision  bright, 
And  hallows  oft  some  lonely  hour. 

Their  shadowy  forms  flit  o'er  my  mind, 
Whispering — they  softly  seem  to  say 

In  accents  melting,  sweet  and  kind, 
Dear  sister,  rise  and  haste  away 

To  heaven,  where  changes  never  come, 
Where  groves  of  bliss  for  ever  bloom, 

Where  friends  shall  meet  in  "  home,  sweet  home,' 
And  fear  no  more  the  insatiate  tomb. 


189 


CHRIST   STILLING   THE   TEMPEST. 


'TwAS  night,  and  darkness  reigned  on  high, 
Black  clouds  enwrapt  the  earth  and  sky, 

And  all  was  fearful  gloom  ; 
Dismayed  the  appalled  disciples  stood, 
And  gazed  with  terror  on  the  flood, 

Their  pathway  to  the  tomb  ! 

While  the  dread  tempest  gathered  higher, 
And  fierce  winds  swept  their  thundering  lyre 

In  bold  terrific  tone  ; 
Around  with  anxious  fear  they  cast 
Their  eyes,  when  lo  !  amid  the  blast, 

Unsheltered  and  alone, 

A  form  was  seen  approaching  near, 
Calm,  dignified,  devoid  of  fear ; 

With  terror,  quick  they  fly  ! 
When  soon  a  sweet  seraphic  voice 
Made  each  despairing  heart  rejoice, 

Exclaiming,  "  It  is  1 1" 

Thus,  when  the  soul's  convulsive  dread 
Of  death,  with  earthquake's  heavy  tread, 

Affrighted,  shrinks  away 
As  morning  shows  its  beauteous  rays — 
So  Jesus  his  pierced  side  displays, 

And  straight  'tis  heavenly  day. 


190 
TO   MISS   GERALDINE  SHALER   GARDINER, 

ON  HER  FIRST  VISIT  TO  HER  GRANDFATHER'S,  THE  REV.  J.  D.  G. 


WELCOME,  little  beauteous  stranger, 
To  my  bosom  quickly  come  ; 

Free  from  care,  a  little  ranger, 
Welcome  to  your  father's  home. 

Lay  your  little  head,  my  darling, 
On  the  same  fond,  loving  breast, 

Where  in  infancy's  young  morning, 
Oft  your  father  sought  his  rest. 

Like  the  sweet  bouquet  thou  wearest, 
Placed  by  love  upon  your  breast ; 

May  you  like  the  flowers,  my  dearest, 
Find  your  heart  your  seat  of  rest. 

Father,  mother,  first-born  treasure, 
All  of  earth,  and  doomed  to  die ; 

Live,  and  love,  then  reap  the  pleasure, 
For  the  pure  in  heart  on  high. 


191 


GOD    IN   ALL   HIS    WORKS.— A   POEM. 


GOD  is  a  spirit — yet  he  deigns 

To  dwell  on  earth,  to  dwell  with  man  ; 
In  every  form  his  image  reigns, 

In  all  his  works  his  mind  we  scan. 

We  view  Him  in  our  wondrous  frame, 
We  feel  Him  in  each  heaving  breath  ; 

His  spirit,  which  pervades  the  same, 

Exists  through  life,  and  lives  through  death. 

In  nature  we  behold  his  name, 

Portrayed  in  all  that 's  bright  and  fair ; 

His  breath  is  in  the  warring  wind, 
And  in  the  gentlest  breeze  of  air, 

The  landscape  decked  in  glowing  charms, 
Spread  out  upon  some  lovely  isle  ; 

Like  beauty  clasped  in  ocean's  arms, 
Enjoys  his  light,  rests  in  his  smile. 

The  thunder  speaks  his  hidden  power, 
The  sheeted  lightning  show  his  wrath  ; 

The  fierce  tornadoes  as  they  lower, 
Speak  forth  their  terrors  in  his  path. 

The  rainbow  with  its  brilliant  shades, 
O'erarching  nature  grand  ajid  high  ; 

Speaks  his  sweet  promise  as  it  fades 
In  beauty  from  th'  admiring  eye. 

'Mid  pensive  evening's  silent  train, 
'Mid  murmuring  waters  soft  and  clear, 


FAMILY     LOVE. 

'Mid  nature's  harpings  o'er  the  plain, 
The  breathings  of  his  love  we  hear. 

The  lovely  flower  which  rears  its  head 
In  sweetness  o'er  the  vernal  plain, 

Speaks  forth  his  care,  its  petals  spread, 
Blushing  amid  the  golden  train. 

The  sighing  winds,  the  moaning  woods, 
The  glimmerings  of  some  lonely  star ; 

The  moonbeams  trembling  o'er  the  floods, 
Reveal  his  kindness  ever  there. 

Man  cannot  turn  his  eye  abroad, 
But  in  some  mirror  he  will  see 

Some  bright  remembrance  of  his  God, 
Some  semblance  of  the  Deity. 


FAMILY    LOVE. 


'  What  sight  on  earth  so  sweet  and  yet  so  rare, 
As  kindred  love  and  family  repose."  YOUNG. 


Is  there  upon  this  earth  a  sight 

So  beautiful  and  fair — 
So  fraught  with  bliss — so  pure  and  bright, 

And  yet  a  sight  so  rare, 

As  kindred  love,  that  holy  flame, 

And  family  repose  ? 
Is  there  a  joy  that  earth  can  name, 

Which  round  such  pleasure  throws  ? 


THE     SILVER.     MOON. 

If  aught  below  resembles  heaven — 
Aught  like  the  world  above, 

'Tis  where  each  frailty  is  forgiven, 
And  hearts  are  filled  with  love. 

'Tis  like  a  lute  of  various  notes, 

Melodious,  soft,  and  clear. 
Which  o'er  the  soul  in  sweetness  floats, 

And  charms  the  listening  ear. 

But  should  one  note  lose  its  soft  tone, 
Each  fellow  chord  is  mute  : 

One  single  note — one  note  alone, 
Destroys  this  lovely  lute. 

Then,  oh  !  how  cautious  all  should  be, 
Lest  one  rude,  angry  breath 

For  ever  mar  its  minstrelsy, 
And  hush  its  notes  in  death. 

Upon  my  ear,  from  day  to  day, 

The  Lydian  measures  roll, 
And  as  my  moments  glide  away, 

They  sweep  across  ray  soul. 


THE    SILVER   MOON. 


HAIL,  thou  bright  orb  !  resplendently  stealing 

O'er  the  slumbering  world — o'er  the  land — o'er  the  sea 

Past  scenes  of  enjoyment  thy  mild  rays  revealing — 
Past  scenes,  once  so  dear  and  so  lovely  to  me. 

R 


1  94  T  H  K      S  I  L  V  E  R      M  O  ()  X  . 

Oh  !  where  are  those  eyes  that  gazed  on  thy  brightness, 
And  marked  thy  soft  rays  on  the  clear  winding  stream  ? 

Oh  !  where  are  those  voices  which  sung  in  their  lightness, 
"  The  sea,  the  blue  sea,"  'neath  thy  pale  lucid  beam  ? 

Gone  down  to  the  grave  when  their  hopes  were  the  fleetest, 
When  friendship  and  fortune  smiled  bright  on  their  way  ; 

Gone  down  to  the  grave  when  their  joys  were  the  sweetest, 
Nor  friendship  nor  fortune  could  lengthen  their  stay. 

Oh  !  say,  lovely  moon,  oh  !  say  did'st  thou  never 
In  clouds  veil  thy  face  as  thou  gazed'st  below  ? 

When  joys,  pure  as  angels,  were  blighted  for  ever, 
And  hopes,  bright  as  Eden,  were  shrouded  in  wo. 

Thou  queen  of  the  night,  in  yonder  bright  heaven  ! 

Memory  revives  as  we  gaze  on  thy  charms  ; 
Sunlight  and  shade  o'er  my  pathway  have  striven, 

Pleasures  have  waked  and  have  died  in  my  arms. 

Thou  gem  of  the  evening  !  less  transient  I  know 
Than  man,  but  as  mortal — thy  splendors  must  die  ; 

And  this  beautiful  earth  thou  lightest  below, 
In  terror  one  day  from  her  orbit  shall  fly. 

Like  life's  brightest  hopes,  all,  all  must  expire, 

Save  the  soul,  great,  immortal,  by  mercy  redeemed ; 

That  soul,  as  the  sun,  mounting  higher  and  higher, 

Shall  soar  in  those  realms  where  thy  light  never  beamed. 


195 


STANZAS 


'  Sweet  were  those  scenes  my  fancy  drew 
As  life  first  opened  to  my  view." 

YES,  sweet  those  scenes,  which  on  the  mind 
Left  naught  unpleasant  or  unkind. 
Sweet  hours  of  youth,  when  care  and  gloom 
Were  strangers  to  our  early  bloom  ; 
When  visions  bright,  and  free  as  air, 
Danced  o'er  the  mind  devoid  of  care — 
Painted  like  rainbows  on  the  sky, 
And  beautiful  to  love's  young  eye, 
In  thousand  forms  of  silvery  hue, 
And  fancied  by  the  heart  as  true. 

Deceptive  dreams,  as  false  as  fair, 
As  vain  as  false,  and  light  as  air  ; 
Those  meteors  bright,  whose  flashing  ray 
Allures  and  gilds  but  to  betray. 
Frail  as  the  flower,  those  early  charms 
Fade  ere  we  fold  them  in  our  arms — 
A  gilded  phantom,  which  aspires, 
Sparkles  a  moment,  then  expires. 

Ah !  who  has  not,  in  life's  young  morn, 
Seen  hopes  decay  which  scarce  were  born  ? 
Felt  in  their  soul  a  void  as  deep, 
As  if  creation  were  asleep  ? 
Seen  youth's  bright  visions  pass  away, 
Like  stars  before  the  opening  day. 
Transient  as  on  some  blushing  leaf 
The  dew-drops  sparkle,  and  as  brief. 


196  HOLY      CONVERSE. 

Had  we  but  weighed  them  ere  they  passed, 
Those  phantoms  bright  we  ne'er  had  clasped. 
Had  we  but  known  how  soon  the  eye 
Which  beamed  with  love,  on  us,  must  die  ; 
How  soon  the  form  beloved  and  dear, 
Like  morning  mist,  must  disappear  ; 
The  tear  had  oft  the  smile  outweighed, 
Which  on  the  face  so  sweetly  played — 
The  sigh  had  lingered  where  the  soul 
Drank  in  its  bliss  without  control. 


HOLY    CONVERSE. 


SPIRITS  of  the  mighty  dead  ! 

Souls  which  long  to  heaven  have  gone, 
Hover  round  with  lightsome  tread, 

As  I  sit  and  muse  alone. 
Like  a  cloud  ye  wrap  me  round, 
Yet  I  hear  no  voice  or  sound. 

Spirits  of  the  peaceful  dead  ! 

Whither  do  ye  wander  now  ? 
Is  your  home  where  angels  tread — 

Where  the  ransom'd  bow  ? 
Do  ye  flit  around  this  sphere, 
Dimm'd  by  disappointment's  tear  ? 

Do  ye  watch  o'er  lovely  forma 
Which  upon  your  bosoms  lay  ? 

See  you  all  the  bitter  storms 
That  around  their  footsteps  play  ? 


MY     NATIVE     LAND. 

Storms  o'er  which  the  saints  in  heaven 
Would  weep,  if  tears  could  there  be  given. 

Shadows  of  departed  worth  ! 

Spirits  of  the  friends  I  love  ! 
Hearts  devoted,  firm  and  true, 

Whither,  whither  do  ye  rove  ? 
Are  ye  near  ?  methinks  I  feel 

The  kindlings  of  seraphic  fire  ; 
Are  ye  near  ?  behold,  I  kneel ! 
Grant,  oh,  grant  me  my  desire. 

Hark  !  I  hear  them  from  afar, 
Warbling  through  each  twinkling  star ; 
'Mid  those  silvery  orbs  of  light 
Lo  !  they  rush  upon  my  sight. 
Sweet  the  angelic  numbers  roll 
O'er  my  fetter'd,  struggling  soul — 
Panting  now  with  warm  desire, 
To  mingle  with  the  blissful  choir  ! 


MY   NATIVE   LAND. 


MY  native  land  !  I  love  thy  flowing  streams, 
Thy  foaming  cataracts,  and  thy  mountains  bold 

Thy  glorious  sunsets,  and  thy  sylvan  scenes, 
Thy  summer  breezes,  and  thy  winter's  cold. 

My  native  land  !  thy  boundless  seas  I  love, 
I  love  the  music  of  their  ceaseless  roar ; 

My  soul  inspir'd  as  on  thy  banks  I  rove, 
Delighted  lingers  on  the  rock  bound  shore. 


My  native  land  !  I  love  thy  forests  wild, 
Thy  shaded  groves,  when  starlight  faintly  gleams  ; 

I  love  to  wander  where  the  moonbeams  mild, 
Mirror  their  beauties  in  the  limpid  streams. 

My  native  land !  I  love  thy  classic  bowers  ; 

I  love  to  climb  fair  Science'  lofty  mount ; 
In  sober  thought,  to  call  immortal  flowers, 

And  drink  true  pleasure  from  each  sacred  fount. 

I  love  thy  Temples,  where  the  spirit  free 

Worships  the  Deity,  to  man  reveal'd ; 
In  crowded  Domes,  or  'neath  the  forest  tree, 

I  love  that  Temple,  public  or  conceal'd. 

I  love  the  soil  where  patriot  spirits  bled, 

Whose  blood  enriched  the  ground  on  which  they  trod 
Imagination  lingers  in  their  tread, 

And  rears  an  altar  to  the  living  God. 

The  Magna  Charta  of  our  nation's  rights, 
Our  heroes,  statesmen,  stars  of  brilliant  hue  ; 

I  love  their  virtues,  and  their  lofty  flights, 
The  guardians  of  our  Constitution,  true. 

Bright  constellation !  may  they  ever  shine, 
From  day  to  day,  with  an  increasing  flame  ! 

Fame  'round  their  brows  a  fadeless  wreath  entwine, 
And  Heaven  above  record  each  honored  name. 

My  native  land  !  thine  is  a  favored  lot, 

To  high-born  souls,  and  patriot  spirits  given. 

My  native  land  !  earth  knows  no  holier  spot — 
No  lovelier  one  beneath  the  light  of  Heaven ! 


199 


ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MISS    S.    H. 


BRING  flowers,  bring  flowers  for  the  early  dead — 

Bright  be  the  beautiful  wreath  ; 
Scatter  them  'round  with  a  noiseless  tread, 
O'er  the  verdant  sod  of  their  green  summer  bed, 

All  fragrant  with  morning's  pure  breath. 

Gemmed  with  the  lustre  of  sympathy's  tear, 

Let  friendship  her  offring  bestow ; 
Twine  the  green  chaplet,  for  virtue  lies  here — 
The  spirit  of  beauty  has  lit  on  the  bier, 

And  placed  her  bright  stamp  on  her  brow. 

Bring  flowers  for  the  lovely,  and  scatter  them  round- 
Strevr  them  over  the  white  urn  of  love; 

Let  no  cypress  wave  its  dark  shade  o'er  the  mound, 

But  scatter  young  roses  over  the  ground, 
For  the  spirit  is  happy  above. 

Bright  is  the  clime  where  on  high  it  has  fled — 

No  night  the  skies  ever  wear  ; 
Then  scatter  fresh  flowers  o'er  the  beautiful  dead, 
When  at  evening  you  come  with  a  lingering  tread 

To  weep  for  the  maiden  so  fair. 


200 


THE    STUDENTS, 


[THE  following  piece  was  written  in  memory  of  Gilbert  Livingston 
Smith,  the  particular  friend  of  the  Rev.  S.  Ely,  of  East  Hampton, 
Long  Island,  who  were  classmates  in  Yale  College.] 


IN  childhood's  morn  two  kindred  souls  were  seen, 
At  school,  at  church,  and  on  the  village  green  ; 
In  all  their  sports,  in  all  their  youthful  glee, 
Where  one  was  seen  the  other  sure  would  be. 

In  every  joy  they  shared  an  equal  part, 

And  griefs  alike  subdued  each  kindred  heart ; 

Through  childhood's  morn,  through  youth's  enchanting  hours, 

In  halls  of  science,  each  displayed  their  powers ; 

No  rivalry,  no  jarring  passions  moved 

Their  youthful  bosoms,  for  they  truly  loved. 

At  morning's  dawn  with  lightsome  feet  they  strayed, 

And  swept  the  light  dew  from  the  forest  glade. 

Often  amid  their  spirits'  airy  flight, 

They  viewed  fair  Greece,  and  saw  her  temples  bright ; 

Viewed  the  famed  spot,  where  Marathon  once  stood — 

That  post  of  honor,  and  that  field  of  blood. 

Together  trod  fair  science'  steep  ascent — 

Oft  through  Italian  bowers  in  fancy  went ; 

Climbed  the  tall  cliffs,  and  viewed  the  far  famed  shere 

Of  fair  Thessalia,  bright  with  classic  lore  ; 

Where  spreading  palms  embowered  the  spangled  grove, 

And  yeung  Adonis  breathed  his  vows  of  love — 

Where  Homer  strayed  amid  the  vine  clad  hills, 

Or  tuned  his  lyre  beside  his  native  rills — 


THE      STUDENTS.  201 

'Mid  perfum'd  bowers,  where  Orpheus'  silver  strain 
Melodious  swept  along  the  dewy  plain. 
Surveyed  the  palace  where  the  Caesars  stood — 
Gazed,  till  the  Tiber  rolled  with  human  blood — 
Wept  over  Carthage,  where  a  Marius  roved 
When  all  was  gone,  which  he  had  ever  loved. 

Soon  fled  those  halcyon  days  :  and  then  adieu 

To  Academe — the  busy  world  in  view  ; 

And  "  Home,  sweet  Home,"  with  all  its  winning  charms, 

Received  them  both  within  its  hallowed  arms. 

Nor  fields  of  glory  found  these  friends  a  place  ; 
Not  laurels  gathered  from  the  bar  did  grace  : 
To  them  were  given  a  task  divinely  sweet — 
They  learned  obedience  at  the  Saviour's  feet. 
The  Gospel  trumpet's  soft  enchanting  strain 
Flowed  from  their  lips,  and  echoed  o'er  the  plain. 
While  all  was  bright — when  all  around  them  smiled, 
And  love  and  friendship  every  hour  beguiled, 
Death  envious  viewed  their  summer's  opening  bloom, 
And  laid  young  Gilbert  in  the  darksome  tomb. 

How  love  and  friendship  through  that  gloomy  hour, 
In  anguish  writhed  beneath  death's  withering  power  ! 
Maternal  fondness  watched  around  his  bed, 
Kissed  his  pale  lips,  and  held  his  aching  head  ; 
Caught  the  last  whisper  of  his  parting  breath, 
And  smoothed  his  pillow,  till  he  sunk  in  death. 
Then  from  his  couch,  in  frantic  grief  they  tore 
His  fainting  mother — from  the  son  she  bore. 
How  true  the  words,  the  best  of  poets  cries, 
"  'Tis  not  the  dead  ;  but  the  survivor  dies." 

Smith  sleeps  !  but  memory  wakes  ;  the  plastic  mind 
Brings  back  each  feature,  every  action  kind. 
Like  yonder  ocean  lashing  now  our  shore, 
His  requiem  sings  in  one  eternal  roar. 


202  THI     MANIAC. 

Nor  will  it  sleep  ;  till  in  its  orb  this  earth 

Shall  cease  to  move — hung  pendant  from  its  birth. 

Memory  ne'er  sleeps  ;  she  on  this  sea-girt  isle, 

Brings  back  the  early,  well  remembered  smile  ; 

She  speaks  a  name,  a  name  that's  ever  dear, 

And  whispers  oft  the  loved  one  in  our  ear. 

Oft  takes  the  hand,  the  hand  in  friendship  plighted, 

And  clasps  again  the  form  which  once  delighted. 

She  treasures  up  each  well  remembered  word, 

In  sweet  retrospect  views  the  friend  adored. 

Distance  nor  time  the  charm  can  ever  break  ; 

The  sea  may  roar,  earth's  highest  mountains  quake  ; 

Volcanoes,  war,  and  famine  fill  our  earth, 

But  friendship's  tie  is  of  immortal  birth. 

Pure  are  its  joys,  it  softens  human  woes, 

Eternity  alone  its  sweets  disclose  ; 

While  life  exists,  man  with  the  poet  cries, 

"  'Tis  not  the  dead  ;  but  the  survivor  dies." 


THE    MANIAC. 


SEE  you  that  lovely,  beauteous  maid, 
With  visage  wild  and  maniac  stare  1 

Her  noble  mind  in  ruins  laid, 

And  reason  throned  no  longer  there. 

She  sits  all  mute  from  day  to  day, 
In  some  dark,  lone,  sequestered  spot 

And  weeps  and  sings  in  mournful  lay, 
By  friends  and  kindred  all  forgot. 


THE      M  A  X  I  A  C  .  203 

Her  mind  is  like  the  troubled  deep, 

Whose  restless  billows  lash  the  shore  ; 
Where  angry  .waves  in  fury  sweep, 

And  ocean's  waves  eternal  roar. 

The  lute's  soft  note,  its  touching  strain, 

Falls  dead  upon  her  listless  ear  ; 
And  harps  ^Eolian  sing  in  vain, 

For  music  has  no  power  to  cheer. 

The  minstrel's  voice,  the  night  bird's  song, 

The  torrent's  sound  on  distant  hill, 
The  thunders  as  they  roll  along, 

And  babblings  of  the  distant  rill, 

Are  all  alike  to  her,  poor  soul  ! 

Whose  mind  in  awful  ruin  lies, 
And  o'er  her  have  no  more  control 

Than  clouds  and  vapors  in  the  skies. 

Nor  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  stars  serene, 

Now  gleam  upon  her  mental  night ; 
No  light  of  reason  there  is  seen 

To  shed  its  radiance  on  her  sight. 

Poor  hapless  maid  !  had  I  the  power, 

I'd  place  thy  mind  upon  its  throne  ; 
Dispel  thy  gloom,  and  bring  the  hour 

When  reason's  lamp  with  splendor  shone. 


204 
THE    AURORA    BOREALIS, 

AS    BEHELD    ON    THE    EVENING    OF    NOVEMBER    16,  1841. 


OH,  could  my  muse  amid  her  flight, 

But  dip  her  pencil  in  the  sky, 
Then  would  I  paint  in  colors  bright 

A  gorgeous  scene  of  imagery  5 

Paint  glittering  circles  as  they  beamed, 
From  winged  clouds  as  black  as  night ; 

Through  which  no  starlight  faintly  gleamed, 
No  moon's  pale  rays  of  trembling  light. 

On  high  a  brilliant  arch  arose, 
Illumin'd  with  a  roseate  glow  ; 

While  rainbows  sparkled  as  they  froze, 
Emerging  from  their  beds  of  snow. 

Up  through  the  misty  air  the  spires, 
Like  crimson  needles,  flashed  on  high  ; 

Luke  pyramids  of  blazing  fires, 

Gleaming  athwart  the  troubled  sky. 

The  airy  phantoms  danced  in  view, 
Like  flaming  armies  robed  in  light ; 

Then  quick  the  dazzling  cohorts  flew, 
And  ope'd  new  squadrons  on  the  sight. 

Borne  on  a  cloud  of  thousand  lights, 
The  God  of  storms  in  grandeur  rode  ; 

Marshalled  his  hosts  of  frosty  knights, 
As  up  the  azure  depths  they  strode. 


205 


The  electric  troops  with  sparkling  crest, 

On  fiery  steeds  majestic  came ; 
While  all  in  blazing  armor  drest, 
Battled  amid  the  lightning's  flame. 

The  air  seemed  rife  with  aerial  forms, 

Holding  their  mystic  revelry  ; 
Their  gala  was  the  strife  of  storms — 

The  roaring  seas  their  minstrelsy. 

The  frost  king  in  his  chariot  bright, 

Moved  quickly  'round  th'  electric  pole  ; 

Then  dashing  up  the  dizzy  height, 
One  brilliant  flash  illumed  the  whole  ! 

The  massy  columns  fled  away, 

Floating  upon  th'  etherial  tide  ; 
Like  beacons,  lest  the  spirits  stray, 

And  wander  from  their  unknown  guide. 

Quick,  up  the  zenith  fleecy  waves 
Of  lucid  light  cast  their  bright  ray ; 

Trembled  a  moment,  o'er  their  graves, 
Then  flashing,  changing — died  away  ! 

What  mind  conceive,  what  tongue  can  tell, 
From  whence,  and  where  these  mystic  fires  ' 

Within  what  cavern  vast,  they  dwell, 
Shooting  on  high  their  numerous  spires  ! 

What  hidden  charm  invests  the  pole  ? 

The  needle  by  its  mgic  power, 
'Mid  furious  storms  feels  its  control, 

Nor  wavers  for  a  single  hour. 

Thus  may  the  Almighty  by  his  grace, 
Sweetly  attract  the  wandering  soul ; 

That  man,  secure  in  his  embrace, 

May  rest  when  earth's  foundation's  roll ! 


206 


THE    DYING    DAUGHTER 


OR  A  MOTHER'S  LOVE. 


"  DEAR  mother,  will  you  bring  me  that  beautiful  flower, 

And  let  me  inhale  its  perfume  ? 
An  emblem,  how  striking,  of  life's  fleeting  hour, 

Of  joys  which  expire  in  the  tomb. 

"  Come,  now,  my  dear  mother,  and  sit  by  my  bed, 
And  smooth  down  my  dark  flowing  hair ; 

Come  place  this  sweet  rose  on  the  side  of  my  head — 
Once  you  said  it  looked  beautiful  there. 

"  Dear  mother,  will  you  please  draw  the  curtain  away 

And  bring  my  geranium  here  ? 
How  often  I've  watched  its  green  leaves  as  I  lay, 

Watched  them  often,  alas  !  with  a  tear. 

"  'Tis  my  favorite  plant,  I  will  give  it  to  you, 
Soon  this  young  bud  in  beauty  will  bloom  ; 

And  when  its  bright  colors  shall  burst  on  your  view, 
Your  Mary  may  sleep  in  the  tomb. 

"  Dear  mother,  sweet  mother,  take  the  Bible  and  read 
Pray  once  more  for  the  child  whom  you  love  ; 

One  kiss,  dearest  mother,  I  am  going,  indeed, 
To  far  brighter  mansions  above." 

That  mother  bent  over  her  beautiful  child — 

She  kissed  her  again  and  again  ; 
Her  Mary  was  gone — that  mother  was  wild  ! 

Her  blood  coursed  cold  through  each  vein. 


207 


"  Oh,  now  can  I  live  in  this  cold  world,"  she  cried, 

"  I  have  nothing  on  earth  more  to  do." 
She  sank  by  the  side  of  her  daughter  and  died, 
And  quick  to  her  Mary  she  flew. 

The  tall  grass  waves  mournfully  over  their  tomb, 

The  moon  faintly  gleams  through  the  trees  ; 
The  wild  rose  is  there,  all  fresh  in  its  bloom, 
And  its  fragrance  is  borne  on  the  breeze. 


E  Z  E  K I E  L  2  4—2  6  . 


"Son  of  man,  behold  I  take  away  from  you,  the  desire  of  your  eyes  with  a  stroke.' 

BRIGHTL  the  morning  arose, 

And  sweet  was  the  ambient  air ; 
The  moss  cup,  the  lilly  and  rose, 

Bloom'd  forth  in  their  lovliness  fair. 

Two  fond  hearts  devoted  and  true, 
Must  be  rent  from  each  other  away  ; 

No  more  thro'  the  emerald  grove, 
Delighted  they  longer  could  stray. 

One  was  fair  as  morn's  earliest  gem, 

And  lay  in  the  arms  of  her  love  ; 
Her  beauty  was  bright  as  the  dawn, 

Her  breath  was  as  soft  as  the  dove. 

As  he  gazed  on  his  own  chosen  one, 

And  lived  in  the  light  of  her  eye  ; 
A  voice  cried  aloud  from  the  throne, 

"  The  wife  of  your  bosom  shall  die." 


203  TO     WILLIAM     H.     HART. 

But  shed  not  one  tear,  nor  repine, 

She  is  mine,  and  my  mandate  is  seal'd  ; 

The  Idol  you  fancied  divine, 
Must  soon  from  your  sight  be  conceal'd. 

'Twas  done — and  at  evening's  soft  hour, 

He  sat  in  his  arbor  alone ; 
Alas !  for  the  beautiful  flower, 

'Twas  wither'd,  and  faded,  and  gone. 


TO  WILLIAM  H.  HART, 


ON    HIS    LEAVING    SA&    HARBOR. 


FAREWELL  little  Willy,  the  joy  of  each  heart, 
From  so  sweet  a  cherub  'tis  anguish  to  part ; 

We  shall  miss  your  lov'd  voice,  so  happy  and  free, 
Gushing  forth  in  rich  music,  like  a  bird  full  of  glee. 

Farewell  little  Willy,  no  more  will  the  hall, 

Reecho  at  morn  with  your  silvery  call ; 
No  more  will  your  feet  in  their  buoyancy  move, 

To  meet  the  warm  kiss  of  affection  and  love. 

From  those  in  the  mansion,  where  the  sun's  golden  light, 
Dawn'd  clearly,  and  beautifully  first  on  your  sight ; 

Where  your  father  bent  over  his  young  darling  boy, 
And  your  mother's  soft  bosom  beat  high  in  its  joy. 

Farewell  little  Willy,  you  go  from  us  now, 

With  a  smile  in  your  eye,  and  no  cloud  on  your  brow  ; 


209 


Unconscious  of  sorrow,  a  stranger  to  fear, 
Unknowing  the  cause  of  each  glistening  tear. 

You  go  little  Willy,  from  hearts,  on  whose  throne, 
You  reign'd  in  your  glory  supreme  and  alone. 

You  go  with  the  waters  of  life  on  your  brow, 
From  the  baptismal  font,  how  bright  is  the  glow 

They  left  on  your  beautifal  face  ;  now  I  see 

Your  black  sparkling  eyes  as  they  lit  upon  me. 

0,  ne'er  from  my  mind  can  that  soft  glance  depart, 
'Tis  stamp'd  on  my  soul,  'tis  engrav'd  on  my  heart ; 

I  shall  think  of  you  often,  when  absent,  and  tell, 
How  dearly  we  loved  you,  sweet  Willy  farewell. 


ON  THE  PARTING  OF  FRIENDS. 


To  part,  and  feel  that  we  again 

On  earth,  once  more  our  friends  shall  meet ; 
Robs  the  torn  breast  of  half  its  pain, 

And  makes  e'en  farewell  anguish  sweet. 

But  oh,  to  rend  away  and  know 

It  is  forever,  and  the  heart 
Which  lov'd  thro'  every  ebb  and  flow 

Of  life,  forever  MUST  depart. 

Forever  vanish  from  our  view, 

No  wish,  or  power  can  them  replace  ; 

A  phantom,  which  if  we  pursue, 

Still  onward  flies  and  leaves  no  trace. 


210  ON     LEAVING     THE     OLD     MANSION-HOUSE. 

To  part,  to  part,  and  know  no  more, 
The  voice  we  loved,  so  soft  and  clear, 

Like  winds  from  Araby's  mild  shore, 
Shall  fall  upon  the  listening  ear. 

To  feel  no  time  can  ever  bring, 

The  cherished  one  to  us  again  ; 
Lashes  the  soul  with  scorpion  sting, 

And  chills  the  blood  in  every  vein. 

Or  sends  the  vital  current  on, 

More  rapid  in  its  winding  way ; 
'Till  life,  and  time,  seem  lost  and  gone, 

Or  on  the  wildering  Senses  play. 

None  can  describe,  no  tongue  can  tell, 
None  can  conceive,  but  those  who  taste ; 

The  anguish  of  that  parting  knell 

Which  speaks  this  world  a  barren  waste. 

Speaks  every  joy  like  bubbles  blown, 

Scattered  upon  the  desert  air  ; 
A  knell,  that  echoes  peace  has  flown  ! 

And  leaves  the  mind  to  wild  despair. 


ON  LEAVING  THE  OLD  MANSION  HOUSE, 


I  LEAVE  thee  mansion  of  long  years  of  peace, 
I  leave  thee  sorrowing,  yet  I  leave  with  joy  ; 

For  here  I've  seen  life's  brightest  prospects  cease, 
And  here  I've  tasted  bliss  without  alloy. 


I  leave  thee,  leave  thy  pleasant  rooms  and  halls, 
I  leave  my  nursery,  where  in  love  I've  pass'd, 

The  dearest,  sweetest  hours,  'mid  infant  calls, 
I  e'er  shall  spend  while  time  and  memory  last. 

I  leave  thee  willows,  which  so  oft  at  night 

Have  drooped  in  beauty  o'er  each  cherish'd  flower ; 

Willows,  through  which  the  pale  moon's  silvery  light, 
Has  gleam'd  within  the  sweet  domestic  bower. 

I  leave  thy  shade,  I  leave  thy  weeping  boughs 
Which  oft  have  wav'd  in  pensive  sympathy ; 

As  on  my  bed  I've  breath'd  my  evening  vows, 
When  sickness  spread  her  ebon  pall  o'er  me. 

I  leave  thee,  study — where  my  husband  pray'd, 
And  conn'd  his  sermons  for  the  pious  ear  ^ 

I  leave  thee,  school-room,  where  my  children  play'd, 
Bright  spots  of  earth,  to  me  forever  dear. 

Old  oak— I  leave  thee  too — thou  dear  old  tree  ; 

Often  at  sun-sets  mellow'd  hour  I've  stray'd, 
Beneath  thy  branches  ;  many  an  hour  of  glee, 

I've  spent  delighted  on  the  velvet  glade. 

Old  oak  belov'd !  the  spot  of  childish  mirth 
Has  been  beneath  thy  shadowy  boughs  at  eve  ; 

My  children  there,  have  gambol'd  from  their  birth. 
With  deep  regret,  thy  foliage  now  I  leave. 

Farewell,  sweet  home — associations  rise, 
Farewell — I  must  not  dwell  too  long  on  thee, 

Yet  thou  art  dear — the  garden,  arbor,  skies, 
All,  all,  I  love — even  the  old  Oak  Tree. 


212 


A  SABBATH  SCENE 


THE  day  was  one  of  lovliness,  the  sun  in  splendor  shone, 
O'er  castle,  tower,  and  mountain  top,  o'er  gilded  spire  and  dome  ; 
The  bells  chim'd  forth  in  sweetness  upon  the  gusty  air, 
And  hearts  of  humble  gratitude,  met  in  the  house  of  pray'r. 

'Twas  a  day  of  thrilling  interest,  hundreds  and  hundreds  came  ; 
The  crowded  aisle  was  fill'd  with  those,  who  loved  the  Saviour's 

name ; 

The  man  of  God  raised  high  his  hand,  his  heart  with  virtue  glow'd, 
The  old,  the  young,  the  beautiful,  around  the  altar  bow'd. 

Peace  sat  serenely  on  the  brow  which  once  was  knit  with  care, 
Grace  wrapped  her  spotless  robe  around  the  fairest  of  the  fair ; 
The  mother  with  the  daughter  came,  the  sire  the  son  embraced, 
And  e'en  the  orphan,  all  alone,  look'd  heavenly  as  she  pass'd. 

Angels  above,  delighted  bent,  the  rapturous  scene  to  view, 
Bright  seraphs  spread  their  golden  wings,  and  near  the  temple  drew  ; 
The  echoing  heavens  in  praises  rang,  to  God's  eternal  son, 
And  saints  in  humble  rev'rence  bow'd,  before  the  three  in  One. 

O,  'twas  a  day,  through  coming  time,  will  tune  the  Christian's  lyre, 
A  day,  which  through  eternity,  will  nobler  thoughts  inspire  ; 
Within  the  groves  of  Paradise,  delighted  there,  they'll  tell, 
What  strong  emotions  sway'd  their  souls,  what  burning  tears  here 
fell. 

O,  may  the  scene,  the  blissful  scene,  on  earth  be  oft  renew'd, 
More  precious  souls  be  gather'd  in,  more  stubborn  wills  subdued ; 
The  Gospel  chariot,  light  convey  o'er  a  benighted  world, 
The  King  of  Glory,  guide  its  way,  with  banners  bright,  unfurl'd. 


213 


CHRISTMAS    REMINISCENCES, 


FAIR  muse,  assist  me  in  my  humble  lay, 

As  memory  wakes  upon  this  Christmas  day — 

Goes  back  to  scenes  once  fraught  with  purest  bliss 

When  from  each  child  came  the  enraptur'd  kiss, 

E'er  morning  dawned,  as  round  my  bed  they  drew, 

Anxious  for  Santa's  presents  bright  and  new. 

Cakes,  nuts,  and  candies  in  profusion  strewed, 

The  sight  of  which  their  infant  glee  renewed, 

As  in  each  hanging  sock,  or  on  each  plate, 

Their  Christmas  gifts,  they  viewed  with  hearts  elate, 

Then  back  to  bed,  with  buoyant  minds  and  feet, 

And  spread  their  treasure  o'er  the  whiten'd  sheet. 

Up  with  the  sun,  and  o'er  the  whiten'd  earth, 

With  sleds  and  skates  they  bound  in  jocund  mirth, 

Upon  the  glossy  pond  or  down  the  hill, 

The  air  resounding  with  their  voices  shrill. 

Ah !  now  methinks  I  hear  the  merry  laugh, 

And  from  past  pleasures  sweet  delight  Isquaff — 

While  from  my  eye  the  tears  of  memory  roll, 

As  joys  departed  steal  across  my  soul. 

Where  are  those  loved  ones  ?     Some  are  far  away — 

To  manhood  grown — past  is  their  summer's  day. 

Those  lovely  babes,  which  slumbered  in  my  arms, 

They,  too,  have  flown,  with  all  their  winning  charms. 

Beneath  the  green  turf,  sweetly  now  they  rest, 

While  one  beloved  roams  in  the  distant  west — 

One  cherished  gem,  on  this  bright  holiday, 

For  the  first  time  from  his  loved  home  away 

Those  who  remain  recall  life's  sunny  hours, 

And  weep  and  smile  like  summer's  opening  flowers, 


214  TWILIGHT     MUSINGS. 

When  to  the  sun  they  rear  their  dewy  heads, 

And  sparkle  in  the  lustre  which  he  sheds. 

Gone — gone  for  ever — nought  can  e'er  restore 

Past  scenes  of  joy,  to  be  beheld  no  more  ! 

But  busy  memory,  oft  to  fancy's  mind, 

Brings  back  each  smile,  each  action,  soft  and  kind. 

Comes  to  the  heart  with  memory's  magic  power, 

And  oft  unfolds  the  past,  the  golden  hour, 

Touches  a  source  from  whence  life's  pleasure  flow, 

A  chord  of  feeling  mothers  only  know — 

A  fountain  deep  which  never  can  run  dry, 

It  springs  eternal  in  the  mother's  eye ; 

There  's  nought  on  earth  which  can  arrest  the  stream, 

Which  mingles  in  the  bliss  of  love's  young  dream. 

Seas  may  retire.     The  sun  through  chaos  rove — 

All  sink  and  die,  except  a  mother's  love ; 

This,  this  shall  live  when  all  things  else  retire, 

And  rise  immortal  o'er  earth's  funeral  pyre. 


TWILIGHT    MUSINGS. 


How  wonderous  must  that  Being  be 
Who  dwells  where  mortals  never  trod — 

His  dazzling  glories,  who  can  see  ? 
Or  comprehend  Him,  but  a  God ! 

Musing,  I'm  lost — all  things  retire — 
And  leave  me  with  myself  alone  ; 

To  things  unseen,  my  thoughts  aspire, 
And  rove  with  angels  round  his  throne. 


TWILIGHT     MUSINGS.  215 

Eternity  !  thou  vast  abyss ! 

How  deep  !  how  dark  !  and  how  profound  ! 
Fain  would  I  soar  to  view  thy  bliss, 

And  fly  o'er  thy  eternal  round. 

How  sweet  the  thought ;  sublime,  and  grand 
That  through  thy  realms  the  undying  soul 

Shall  rise  for  ever — and  expand, 

Where  countless  years  successive  roll. 

When  this  fair  earth  shall  be  refined, 

And  back  to  its  loved  scenes  we  come, 
With  forms  immortal  as  the  mind, 

To  dwell  in  our  eternal  home. 

Where  scenes,  for  ever  new,  unfold 

Their  beauties  to  the  enraptured  eye, 
Where  joys,  which  Seraph's  never  told, 

And  streams  perrennial  never  dry. 

Tears,  clouds,  and  storms  for  ever  past, 

All  tumult  hushed  in  sweet  repose  ; 
The  soul  on  pinions  soaring  fast 

Beyond  those  heights  which  Gabriel  knows. 

Sun,  moon,  and  stars  shrink  from  the  view, 
Eearth's  thrones  and  kingdoms  all  retire, 

When  Nature's  God  forms  all  things  new, 
And  fills  with  bliss  each  vast  desire  ! 

Eternity  !  thou  rolling  stream, 

In  thee,  time  sinks — is  known  no  more  ! 

And  ages  past  are  but  a  dream 
When  viewed  from  thy  unbounded  shore. 

Unbounded  shore !     What  words  are  these  ? 
And  shall  I  view  that  ocean  strand, 


216   TO  MRS.  E.  B.  S.,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  CHILD. 

Shall  my  frail  bark  o'er  life's  rude  seas 
Securely  reach  that  "  better  land  ?" 

Ay !  yes — if  mercy  guides  her  way, 

My  little  bark  shall  safely  rove ; 
Oh  !  may  it  in  that  joyful  day, 

Contain  the  souls  of  those  I  love. 


TO    MRS.   E.    B.   S., 


ON   THE   DEATH    OF   A   BELOVED   CHILD. 


AND  has  that  little  cherub  fled, 
On  whom  so  late  you  smiled ; 

And  have  you  numbered  with  the  dead, 
Your  sweet,  your  lovely  child  ! 

How  short,  how  transient  was  her  stay, 
How  swift  her  upward  flight ; 

As  clouds  obscure  the  breaking  day. 
She  vanished  from  your  sight. 

An  angel  wand 'ring  from  his  sphere, 

Beheld  your  precious  gem — 
Too  bright,  too  pure  to  sparkle  here — 

Upon  earth's  diadem. 

Among  the  pearls  which  round  you  hung, 

He  took  your  lovely  one—- 
O'er her  his  robe  of  mercy  flung, 

And  bore  her  to  his  throne. 


TH1I     DOVK.  217 

The  Savior  on  the  offering  smil'd, 

And  laid  it  on  his  breast ; 
Embraced  with  holy  joy  your  child, 

And  placed  it  with  the  blest. 

A  seraph  bright,  behold  her  rove 

Where  the  pure  and  lovely  meet, 
Warbling,  she  flies  from  grove  to  grove, 

The  stainless  and  the  sweet. 

Amid  those  bright  celestial  bands 

She  strikes  her  golden  lyre, 
Sweeps  o'er  its  chords  her  tiny  hands, 

And  swells  the  blissful  choir. 

When  life,  with  all  its  scenes,  shall  close 

For  ever  on  your  view, 
Where  noon-tide  glory  round  her  flows, 

She  waits  to  welcome  you. 


THE    DOVE. 


Lo  !  from  her  home  the  bird  once  flew, 
And  left  her  storm-rocked  bark  behind  ; 

A  world  of  waters  swift  to  view, 
And  there  a  resting-place  to  find. 

On  pinions  light  as  air  she  hies, 
O'er  the  high  waters'  dashing  roar; 

No  rest  she  finds  below  the  skies, 
'Mid  waste  so  wide  without  a  shore. 


218  THE     DOVE. 

No  lofty  mountain  reared  its  head 
Above  the  white-capt-towering  wave, 

On  which  her  tiny  feet  eould  tread, 
To  save  her  from  a  watery  grave. 

With  searching  eye  and  weary  wing, 
Long  o'er  the  wide  expanse  she  sailed  ; 

That  she  some  olive  leaf  might  find, 
Before  her  keeper's  hope  had  failed. 

The  tempests  rage,  the  billows  roll, 
Loud  thunders  mutter  from  afar ; 

Earth  reels,  and  rocks  from  shore  to  pole, 
While  blackest  clouds  veil  every  star. 

The  wandering  dove,  with  fears  distrest, 
O'er  the  dark  flood,  the  wide  domain, 

With  patient  wing,  still  seeks  for  rest, 
But  all  her  searchings  are  in  vain. 

From  clime  to  clime,  from  deep  to  deep, 
The  feathered  post  pursues  her  way, 

O'er  watery  realms  where  nations  sleep, 
But  finds  no  spot  for  rest  or  stay. 

No  chart  nor  compass  guides  her  flight ; 

No  dim  lone  star  directs  her  course  ; 
She  wings  her  way  through  storms  and  night, 

Led  on  alone  by  instinct  force. 

No  human  voice,  no  living  sound, 
No  cheering  accents  meet  her  ear, 

To  tell  where  peace  or  rest  is  found, 

While  wandering  through  a  scene  so  drear. 

In  this  dark,  sad,  and  helpless  hour, 
When  this  lone  bird  was  tempest-tost, 


T11E     LUNAR     ECLIPSE.  219 

She  found  a  strange  mysterious  power, 
That  bore  her  up  when  hope  was  lost. 

She  looked !  and  saw  the  Ark  once  more, 
Loom,  like  some  speck,  through  misty  space, 

She  sought  the  home  she'd  left  before, 
Ane  there  she  found  a  resting-place. 


THE    LUNAR   ECLIPSE,   FEB.   5th,    1841 


THE  evening  woke  from  sweet  repose, 
And  marshall'd  every  twinkling  star; 

The  pale-faced  moon  in  splendor  rose, 
And  beamed  resplendent  from  afar. 

Up  the  blue  vault,  majestic,  grand, 
She  sailed  amid  the  misty  air, 

Cast  her  bright  rays  o'er  sea  and  land, 
And  never  did  she  look  more  fair. 

Soon  o'er  the  azure  sky  above, 
A  pall  of  awful  darkness  spread  ; 

The  planets  sighed  as  forth  they  rove, 
And  nature  mourned  her  light  had  fled. 

The  earth's  dark  shadow  slowly  veiled, 
The  queen  of  night  enthroned  on  high ; 

Wrapped  her  in  gloom,  as  forth  he  sailed, 
And  hid  her  beams  from  every  eye. 

Each  mountain  top,  each  hill  and  dale, 
Were  shrouded  in  impervious  gloom  ; 


220 


The  timid  Indian,  weak  and  frail, 

Wailed  fearful  at  his  threatened  doom. 

In  A  fric's  sunny  region,  where 

The  untutored  Negro  wildly  roves, 

He  looks  above  in  dire  despair, 

And  shrieking,  hies  him  through  the  groves. 

The  Islanders  afirighted  pause, 

And  shudder  with  an  awe  profound — 

All  strangers  to  those  mighty  laws 
Which  turn  the  rolling  planets  round. 

The  moon  moves  round  her  destined  sphere, 

Holds  on  her  high  majestic  way  ; 
Breaks  forth  from  the  eclipse  so  drear, 

And  shines  with  more  resplendent  ray. 

Enlightened  man,  though  he  could  smile, 

And  gaze  untroubled  on  the  sky, 
Felt  his  proud  heart  own  for  awhile, 

There  is  a  God  who  rules  on  high. 

The  scene  was  splendid,  grand,  sublime  ! 

A  striking  emblem  of  that  power 
Which  stills  the  last  strong  pulse  of  time, 

And  shrouds  in  gloom  man's  brightest  hour. 

The  dark  eclipse  on  the  pale  moon, 

Whose  face  shone  forth  with  radiance  bright 

Tells  me  that  all  life's  scenes  as  soon 
May  sink  in  darkness  from  my  sight. 

That  this  fair  world,  with  rapid  roll, 
May  soon  enshroud  each  earthly  joy  ; 

A  dim  eclipse  o'erspread  the  soul, 
And  all  life's  sweetest  hopes  destroy. 


221 


Fain  would  I  view  that  peaceful  home, 
Those  verdant  plains,  on  Canaan's  shore, 

Where  earth's  dark  shadows  never  come, 
And  dim  eclipses  are  no  more. 


SPRING. 


ADIEU,  stern  winter,  thou  hast  flown, 

With  all  thy  icy  train ; 
The  beauteous  snow-wreaths  now  are  gone, 
The  pearly  showers  of  hail-wrought  stone, 
Rest  on  the  mountain's  top  alone, 

While  flowers  adorn  the  plain. 

The  whirlwind  with  its  furious  roar, 

Sleeps  in  the  flying  cloud  ; 
The  waves  curl  round  the  ice-bound  shore, 
And  struggling,  urge  their  way  once  more 
Toward  the  ocean  ;  where  they  pour 

-Their  waters  clear  and  loud. 

The  little  rivulets  rejoice, 

And  smoothly  glide  along ; 
Sweet  is  the  music  of  their  voice, 
Meandering  in  their  silvery  course 
In  silent,  unobstructed  force, 

Murm'ring  their  vernal  song. 

The  beauteous  songsters  of  the  grove, 

Carol  their  morning  lay ; 
The  nightingale  and  turtle  dove, 


222 


Warble  amid  the  bowers  of  love  ; 
Their  peerless  notes  symphonious  move, 
To  hail  the  new-born  day. 

And  oh,  how  sweet  the  Spring's  fresh  air 

Which  fans  the  dewy  lawn  ; 
Young  flowrets  beautiful  and  fair, 
Burst  forth  beneath  their  Maker's  care, 
Vicing — while  each  its  bounty  share, 

And  sparkle  in  the  dawn. 

The  same  Almighty  hand  which  shook 

The  solid  land  and  sea, 
Dresses  the  lillies  of  the  brook, 
Brings  nature  forth  with  his  kind  look, 
Smiling,  as  when  an  Eden  broke, 

All  bright  at  his  decree. 

The  forest  trees,  so  brown  and  drear, 

Arrayed  in  verdant  green, 
Spread  their  proud  branches  far  and  near, 
Their  foliage  decked  with  Spring's  brigh  tear, 
Sparkling  in  morning's  sunbeams  clear, 

To  beautify  the  scene. 

As  nature  droops  and  dies  away, 

When  wintry  storms  appear  ; 
So  -manhood's  power  and  strength  decay, 
When  stern  affection's  dread  array 
Their  blighted  influence  display, 

And  force  the  unbidden  tear. 

But  if  the  soul  on  God  relies, 

And  does  securely  rest, 
As  flowrets  from  the  earth  arise 
'Neath  the  bright  rays  of  sunny  skies ; 
So  sure  that  soul  shall  gain  the  prize 

Reserved  for  the  just : 


A    TRUE     FRIEND.  223 

Where  one  eternal  Spring  shall  bloom, 

And  winters  pass  away  ; 
Disease  and  death  there  ne'er  find  roofn  ; 
They  have  no  power  beyond  the  tomb, 
There  's  nought  in  that  bright  world  of  bloom, 

But  one  unclouded  day. 


A   TRUE    FRIEND. 


OH  !  tell  me  not  of  earthly  love, 

'Tis  fleeting — transient — vain  ; 

Give  me  a  friend  in  heaven  above, 

One  who  can  every  grief  remove, 

As  through  this  wilderness  I  rove, 

Amid  life's  busy  train. 

One,  who  when  all  is  sparkling  bright, 

Can  purify  each  joy ; 
Add  to  our  pleasure  fresh  delight, 
Throwing  around  a  hallowed  light, 
For  ever  bright'ning  on  the  sight, 

And  mixed  with  no  alloy. 

One,  who  can  cheer  affliction's  hour, 

And  whisper  peace  divine ; 
A  being  of  almighty  power, 
Who  shields  alike  each  trembling  flower, 
When  gathering  tempests  round  U3  lower, 

Let  such  a  friend  be  mine. 


A    SCENE    UPON    THE    OCEAN 


THE  young  bride  left  the  altar, 

Kissed  each  loved  friend  and  smiled, 

Nor  did  her  footsteps  falter, 

For  love  each  thought  beguiled. 

But  when  her  mother  whispered, 

My  dearest  child,  farewell ! 
A  tear  which  long  had  trembled, 

Upon  her  bosom  fell. 

And  when  her  father  blessed  her, 
A  shade  came  o'er  her  soul ; 

A  thrill,  when  he  caressed  her, 
Which  she  could  not  control. 

Each  brother  came,  and  sister, 
Took  her  white  jewelled  hand! ; 

Raised  their  young  heads  and  kissed  her, 
The  brightest  of  the  band. 

Again,  a  shade  of  darkness 

Flitted  across  her  aoul ; 
Again  she  felt  a  sadness 

Which  she  could  not  control. 

Upon  the  deep  blue  waters 

The  bells  impatient  chime  ; 
"  Hasten  ye  sons  and  daughters, 

For  Europe's  fairy  clime." 


A  SCENE  UPON  THE  OCEAN-  235 

As  spring's  first  opening  blossoms 

Shrink  from  the  bitter  storm, 
So  on  her  mother's  bosom, 

Lay  Ellen's  lovely  form. 

But  the  smile  of  love  gleamed  o'er  her, 

Such  was  its  magic  power ; 
Its  light  dispelled  the  darkness, 

As  sunbeams  do  the  shower. 

The  last  fond  look  is  given, 

On  the  flowing  seas  they  ride  ; 
Each  forms  the  other's  heaven, 

As  o'er  the  waves  they  glide. 

"  Hark  !  whither  comes  that  wailing — 

That  shriek  of  wild  despair ! 
Securely  we  are  sailing, 

Where  is  the  danger,  where  ?" 

"  Oh !  see  yon  icy  mountains, 

Great  God  !  behold  they  come  ! 
From  Greenland's  frozen  fountains, 

Upon  their  stormy  home. 

They  are  closing  round  upon  us, 

Like  bulwarks  strong  and  high  ; 
Within  their  cold  embraces 

We  all  must  surely  die  1" 

Hope,  hope,  that  bright-winged  seraph, 

Their  guard  by  night  and  day ; 
Now  veiled  her  face  afrighted, 

And  shrieking  fled  away  ! 

Over  the  young  bride's  bosom, 
The  same  dark  shadow  stole, 


22C  A  SCENE  UPON  THE  OCEAN. 

Which  at  the  sacred  altar 
Fell  on  her  happy  soul. 

There  's  a  shriek  upon  the  ocean — 
There  's  a  wail  upon  the  breeze  ; 

All,  all  is  wild  commotion, 
Upon  the  flowing  seas. 

Like  a  thousand  sunbeams  flashing, 
The  floating  castles  come  ! 

Their  emerald  spires  reflecting 
Upon  the  curling  foam. 

The  husband  team's  bosom 
Clasps  his  young  blooming  bride  ; 

Beneath  the  waves  of  ocean, 
They  slumber  side  by  side  1 

The  Naiads  are  their  bride-maids, 
Around  their  coral  bowers  ; 

They  drew  the  curtains  closely, 
And  strew  them  o'er  with  flowers. 

Mourn  for  the  gallant  steamer 
Who  lately  left  the  shore  ; 

Mourn  for  the  young  and  lovely, 
You'll  hear  from  them  no  more. 

Mourn  for  the  man  of  letters, 
Mourn  for  the  young  and  old  ; 

Mourn  for  the  hardy  seaman, 
And  for  the  steamer  bold ! 


227 


TO   A   ROBIN. 


Go,  little  stranger,  (o  thy  woodland  home, 
No  longer  in  confinement  shalt  thou  stray ; 

Mid  vernal  groves  in  joyous  spirits  roam, 

And  with  thy  young  chant  forth  thy  sweetest  lay. 

How  oft  I've  made  thy  little  heart  to  feel 

Thou  wert  a  prisoner  in  these  wires  confined  ; 

While  thy  shrill  notes  in  plaintive  measures  steal 
Upon  my  ear,  and  float  upon  the  wind. 

Sweet  is  thy  lay,  but  sweeter  far  'twould  sound, 
Couldst  thou  but  warble  in  thy  native  vale  ; 

Where  the  green  ivy  clasps  the  tree  around, 
And  blushing  flowers  nod  in  the  gentle  gale. 

Pure  is  the  water  from  yon  bubbling  spring, 
Each  morn  'tis  brought  to  lave  thy  plumage  bright 

The  hands  of  love  thy  little  offerings  bring, 
And  spread  thy  store  with  pleasure  and  delight. 

But  thou  shalt  now  expand  each  beauteous  wing, 
And  none  shall  stay  thee  in  thy  dizzy  height ; 

The  forests  dense  shall  with  thy  wild  notes  ring, 
So  fare  thee  well,  sweet  Robin,  speed  thy  flight. 

Man  in  his  dungeon  sighs  for  freedom  dear, 

He  scorns  the  despot  'neath  whose  rod  he  bends ; 

And  thou,  my  Robin,  shall  no  longer  hear 
My  voice,  but  hie  thee  to  thy  feathery  friends. 


228  WRECKS     OF     TIME. 

Freedom  alone  can  make  thee  happy  now, 
Thy  song  must  echo  from  the  waving  tree  ; 

Thy  perch  shall  be  the  old  oak's  leafy  bough, 
Thy  home  the  desert,  and  thy  brook  the  sea. 


WRECKS    OF    TIME. 


"  THE  clowd-capt  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 
The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 
Y«  a,  all  that  it  inherits  shall  dissolve ; 
And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  a  vision, 
Leave  not  a  a  wreck  behind." 


WHERE  are  those  ancient  cities  fled, 
For  whom  whole  armies  fought  and  bled, 
When  by  their  gallant  heroes  led, 

To  meet  the  dauntless  foe  ? 
Where  is  the  eye  which  beamed  so  bright 
When  urging  on  the  deadly  fight, 
That  weakness  rallied  with  its  light, 

And  fiercely  twanged  the  bow  ? 

Where  is  Jerusalem  renowned  ? 
Her  fates  of  valor  seldom  found  ; 
Upon  whose  consecrated  ground 

The  Savior's  blood  was  shed  ? 
Where  is  the  impious  hand  which  raised 
The  torch  ;  from  which  a  column  blazed, 
Which  soon  its  beauteous  temple  raised, 

And  wild  confusion  spread  ? 


SKETCKS     OF     TIMES. 

Where  now  is  Thebes — of  all  the  states 
The  greatest — with  her  hundred  gates  ? 
Who  now  around  her  palace  waits, 

Arrayed  with  martial  pride  ? 
Where  is  proud  Babylon,  with  her  walls, 
Her  thrones  of  gold,  her  gilded  halls, 
Which  echoed  with  her  monarch's  calls 

Like  music  on  the  tide  ? 

Where  are  the  palaces  of  Rome, 
Her  lofty  towers,  her  sacred  dome, 
A  people's  pride — a  Caesar's  home, 

Her  forum  dressed  in  gold  ? 
Where  beauteous  Athens  ?     Flower  of  Greece  ! 
Her  heroes — her  Acropolis—- 
Her groves  of  palms,  her  vales  of  peace, 

Her  mountains  high  and  bold  ? 

Oh  tell  me  where  is  ancient  Tyre, 
Her  brazen  walls,  her  glittering  spire, 
Which  Alexander  did  aspire, 

To  conquer  or  to  die  ? 
Powers  and  dominions — where,  oh,  where 
Can  they  be  found  ?     Nor  earth,  nor  air, 
One  remnant  of  their  glory  share  ; 

They  all  in  ruins  lie. 

Within  the  imperial  palace  weaves 
The  spider,  on  his  bed  he  leaves, 
Where  human  pomp  no  more  deceives, 

His  tiny  web  alone. 

Perched  on  the  summit  of  those  towers 
Which  cost  men  lives  of  toilsome  hours, 
The  lonely  owl  her  watch-note  pours — 

A  melancholy  tone. 


229 


230  FRIENDS     OF     TUB     LOST. 

Why  should  vain  man  still  onward  hie, 
When  thousand  beacons  round  him  fly, 
Uttering  their  piercing,  thrilling  cry — 

"  All  nations  fade  away." 
Oh  !  what  to  him  is  burnished  gold, 
If  his  immortal  part  is  sold, 
When  death  appears — terrific,  bold, 

And  claims  him  as  his  prey  ! 


FRIENDS    OF  THE   LOST. 


FRIENDS  of  the  lost — oh  !  turn  your  eyes  above — 
The  world  is  dark — in  such  an  hour  as  this  ! 

Nought  to  your  arms  will  bring  the  one  you  love, 
And  nought  again  restore  their  honied  kiss. 

Around  your  board  no  more  will  they  appear, 
Nor  e'en  at  evening  'round  your  social  hearth  ; 

Their  seat  is  vacant,  and  the  voice  so  dear 
Will  break  no  more  in  sadness  or  in  mirth. 

When  autumn  winds  sigh  through  the  frosted  leaf, 
And  the  long  shadows  of  declining  day 

Whisper  at  evening  human  joys  are  brief, 
Like  stars  which  gleam  and  quickly  fade  away. 

When  gathering  clouds  each  cheering  prospect  aim, 
And  waves  of  sorrow  your  frail  bark  o'erwhelm — 

When  memories  waken  with  the  vesper  hymn, 
Oh  !  then  remember  who  directs  the  helm. 


ON   THE    DEATH    OF    MISS   LUCY    HOOPER.  231 

Remember,  'tis  the  living  God  who  sees 

And  orders  all  things  by  his  sacred  will ; 
Reveals  to  mortals  not  of  his  decrees, 

The  winds  obey  Him,  and  the  waves  are  still. 

Then  look  to  Him,  there  is  no  other  place 
From  whence  relief  can  to  the  spirit  come  ; 

His  own  soft  hand  from  every  weeping  face, 

Shall  wipe  the  tears  and  lead  the  mourner  home. 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  MISS  LUCY  HOOPER 


A    TRIBUTE     OF     AFFECTION, 


A  STAR  from  her  orbit  has  flown, 

Her  brilliance  is  veiled  from  our  eyes, 

Has  vanished  away  and  is  gone, 

Where  the  bloom  of  the  soul  never  dies 

Amid  the  bright  galaxy  there, 

She  soars  unrestrained  in  her  flight ; 

Her  spirit  is  buoyant  as  air, 

And  pure  as  the  regions  of  light. 

No  fetters  of  body  or  mind 

Weigh  down  her  regenerate  soul ; 

In  numbers  as  free  as  the  wind, 
Her  beautiful  melodies  roll. 

The  joys  of  the  blest  are  her  theme, 
The  Saviour  her  song  of  delight ; 


232  ON    THE    DEATH    OF    MISS    LUCY   HOOPER, 

No  longer  a  vision  or  dream 

The  glories  which  burst  on  her  sight. 

Away  through  the  regions  of  space, 
She  flies  with  her  cherubim  guide  ; 

Where  time  in  its  flight  leaves  no  trace, 
As  it  sails  o'er  the  emerald  tide. 

With  her  harp  ever  tuned  on  the  mount, 
She  warbles  her  praises  above, 

She  drinks  at  the  poet's  pure  fount, 
Which  flows  in  the  Eden  of  love. 

She  drinks,  and  her  spirit  is  calmed, 
Each  drop  is  a  fullness  of  heaven  ; 

She  breathes,  and  her  soul  is  embalmed 
With  sweets  to  the  ransomed  given. 

Her  soul,  in  its  twilight  no  more, 

'Mid  splendors  far  brighter  than  gold, 

Looks  forth  from  Eternity's  shore, 
Immortal,  unfettered  and  bold. 

A  star  in  the  system  of  light, 

'Round  the  Saviour,  her  centre  and  home  ; 
She  revolves  with  the  seraphim  bright, 

Where  eclipses  and  clouds  never  come. 

Ye  daughters  of  poesy,  twine 
A  wreath  of  remembrance  true  ; 

Had  she  lived — how  her  spirit  divine, 
Had  woven  a  chaplet  for  you ! 

Mourn,  mourn  not,  ye  loved  of  the  heart, 
But  look  where  the  spirit  is  free  ; 

Although  it  was  painful  to  part, 

Where  else  would  ye  wish  her  to  be  ? 


PREPARE  YE  THZ  WAY  OF  THE  LORD.         233 

Though  you  miss  her  light  step  in  the  hall, 

Her  soft  silver  voice  in  the  groye, 
Oh,  grieve  not,  no  more  shall  the  pall 

Encircle  the  friend  whom  you  love. 

Look  away,  when  at  evening  alone, 

The  tears  from  her  mother's  soft  eye, 
Falls  fast  for  her  child  who  has  gone 

To  her  glorified  home  in  the  sky  ! 


PREPARE-YE   THE    WAY   OF   THE    LORD.' 


Writ  en  on  reading  a  sermon  delivered  in  London,  by  the  Rev.  Edward 
N.  Kirk,  A.  M.,  on  Temperance. 


HEAR  ye  the  sound — "  prepare  ye  the  way' 

Make  straight  a  path  to  God  : 
He  comes  in  all  his  dread  array, 

Blood  calls  aloud  for  blood  ! 

Ho  !  ye  who  raise  the  wine  cup  high 

And  tempt  the  unwary  youth, 
Can  ye  his  vengeance  still  defy, 

And  spurn  at  right  and  truth  ? 

He  comes,  surrounded  by  a  band 

Of  witnesses — they  fly 
O'er  mountains,  deserts,  seas  and  land, 

With  lightning  in  their  eye. 

Widows'  and  orphans'  thrilling  cries 
Float  on  the  gusty  air ; 


234 


Mingling  they  pierce  through  yonder  skies, 
"  Prepare  ye  the  way — prepare  !" 

Ye  who  withstood  his  awful  frown — 

Ye  who  his  wrath  defy — 
Ye  who  have  swept  whole  nations  down, 

Shall  quail  beneath  his  eye. 

When  one  eternal  vortex  rolls, 

And  fire's  encircling  flame — 
Far,  far  beneath  the  drunkards'  souls 

Shall  writhe  the  vender's  frame  ! 

Look  at  your  dark-eyed  beauteous  one, 

Think  of  his  infant  glee  ; 
When,  like  a  wild  young  sportive  fawn, 

He  frolicked  on  your  knee. 

Oh  !  think  should  he,  in  some  rash  hour, 

Sip  the  bewildering  bowl — 
Fall  'neath  the  syren's  witching  power, 

And  madly  sell  his  soul. 

Think  of  your  anguish  when  you  draw 

Round  your  deserted  hearth  ; 
Where  ever  with  delight  you  saw 

The  one  who  gave  him  birth. 

Then  view  her  soul  in  wild  dismay 

List  for  that  pleasant  voice  ; 
Which  erst  had  made,  at  night  or  day, 

Her  anxious  heart  rejoice. 

Should  you  behold  your  own  loved  child 

A  wanderer  from  your  door, 
Would  ye  not  shriek,  in  accents  wild, 

"  Ye  venders,  sell  no  more  ?" 


RELIGION.  235 

Hear  ye  the  word — up  and  prepare, 

Turn  mountains  into  plains  ; 
Proclaim  one  everlasting  war, 

And  bind  the  foe  in  chains. 

What !  though  he  's  strong  you  need  not  fear ; 

Our  fathers,  in  their  day, 
From  beauty's  cheeks  kissed  off  the  tear, 

And  drove  their  foes  away. 

Now,  rally  round — unite  in  one — 

Raise  your  triumphant  cry — 
Shout,  freemen,  shout !  with  trumpet  tone, 

"  The  monster  RUM  shall  die  !" 


RELIGION. 


THERE  is  a  germ  of  noble  birth, 

By  God  to  mortals  given  ; 
A  bud  celestial  formed  on  earth, 

To  bloom  in  yonder  heaven. 

A  germ  of  origin  divine, 

Its  leaves  transcendant  fair  ; 
Not  all  the  wreaths  that  art  can  twine, 

Can  with  its  hues  compare. 

When  nursed  with  kindness  and  with  love, 
It  throws  such  fragrance  round, 

As  wafts  the  raptured  soul  above 
This  low,  this  narrow  bound. 


236  THE     COTTAGE. 

When  clouds  impervious  wrap  the  sky 
Without  one  glimmering  ray, 

Its  perfume  shall  ascend  on  high, 
And  turn  the  night  to  day. 

This  beauteous  germ  ghall  wide  expand, 
And  deep  its  roots  shall  be  ; 

It  branches  spread  from  land  to  land, 
And  wave  o'er  every  sea. 

When  fortune  frowns — when  friends  are  few. 

And  those  few  stand  afar ; 
Its  balm  distills  like  evening  dew 

Beneath  some  lovely  star. 

Man's  dying  hours,  its  virtues  cheer — 
Lights  up  the  shadowy  vale  ; 

From  beauty's  cheek  wipes  every  tear, 
And  sooths  the  mourner's  wail. 

This  is  the  germ  of  heavenly  birth, 
Which  God  to  man  hath  given, 

To  beautify  the  scenes  of  earth, 
And  bloom  in  yonder  heaven. 


THE  COTTAGE. 


GIVE  me  some  lone,  sequestered  spot 
Amid  the  vine-clad  shadowy  bower, 

Where  I  may  build  my  rural  cot, 

And  spend  in  peace  life's  fleeting  hour. 

Free  from  the  world's  tumultuous  strife, 
From  fashion,  show,  and  mirthful  song, 


THE     COTTAGE.  237 

I'd  pass  the  stilly  hours  of  life, 
And  heed  no  more  the  noisy  throng. 

There  in  the  tones  of  ancient  lore, 

I'd  converse  with  the  mighty  dead ; 
While  o'er  time's  dusty  leaves  I'd  pour, 

And  scan  the  pages  round  me  spread. 
I'd  learn  the  wisdom  Plato  taught, 

List  to  the  strains  of  Orpheus's  lyre  ; 
With  sweet  delight  drink  every  thought 

That  could  with  joy  my  soul  inspire. 

Through  fancy's  clear  mysterious  glass, 

Old  sages  learned,  should  rise  to  view ; 
Along  time's  shadowy  vista  pass, 

Unfolding  wonders  ever  new. 
Within  this  low  umbrageous  vale, 

No  storms  should  break  my  sweet  repose  ; 
Secure  from  each  tempestuous  gale, 

Where  blushing  flow'rs  their  sweets  disclose. 

Smiling  in  beauty  on  their  stem, 

Unmindful  of  the  gathering  storm ; 
Each  lifting  high  its  diadem, 

And  boasting  its  unrivalled  form. 
Amid  th'  enrapturing  scene  I'd  dwell, 

Where  all  is  quiet,  peace  and  love  ; 
And  in  the  lonely  tranquil  dell, 

My  nobler  thoughts  should  soar  above. 

My  ears  would  feast  on  warbling  notes 

Of  wild  birds'  songs  amid  the  grove, 
Which  on  each  gentle  zephyr  floats, 

As  'mid  the  waving  trees  I  rove. 
The  babbling  streams  meandering  round, 

With  waters  cool  would  slake  my  thirst ; 
While  nature's  God,  with  awe  profound, 

Would  sure  receive  my  praises  first. 


233 


THE   SISTERS, 


NOT  purer  are  the  stars  above, 
Nor  stainless  than  a  sister's  love. 

Twin  sisters  like  two  roses  grew 

Within  their  natal  bowers, 
Death  took  the  parents  while  the  dew 

Was  sparkling  on  the  flowers. 
Alone  they  sought  the  forest  glade — 

The  beautiful  and  fair ; 
Plucked  the  sweet  blossoms  as  they  strayed, 

And  dressed  their  flowing  hair. 

They  slumbered  in  each  other's  arms, 

And  when  the  morning  came, 
It  smiled  upon  their  glowing  charms, 

And  brightened  beauty's  flame. 
They  slept  and  dreamed  of  pleasant  things, 

They  told  each  fancied  flight, 
And  only  wanted  angel's  wings 

To  be  as  truly  bright. 

Together  trod  the  dewy  lawn, 

And  wooed  the  timid  dove — 
Together  hailed  the  early  dawn 

And  sang  the  hymns  of  love. 
Together  swept  the  trembling  lyre 

When  evening  shadows  meet ; 
Glowing  with  pure  seraphic  fire, 

The  stainless  and  the  sweet. 

One  heart,  one  soul,  one  breath  they  drew, 
Smiled,  hoped,  and  wept  and  sighed, 


GOD    SEEN    IN    ALL   HIS    WORKS.  239 

Until  a  youth  beloved  and  true, 

Claimed  Ellen  as  his  bride. 
Then  o'er  her  sister's  face  a  cloud 

Hung  like  a  mystic  veil ; 
She  never  told  her  grief  aloud — 

Her  eyes  revealed  the  tale. 

Her  smile  was  like  a  fitful  beam, 

Like  lightning  in  the  sky ; 
When  darkness  by  the  transient  gleam 

Grows  deeper  on  the  eye. 
Young  Edwin  soothed — but  'twas  in  vain, 

The  charm  of  life  was  o'er  ; 
The  star  of  hope  sunk  'neath  the  main, 

And  lit  her  sky  no  more  ! 

Sad  was  the  morning  when  he  took 

His  lovely  bride  away, 
And  sad  the  last  fond  tender  look, 

Cast  on  Emeile  that  day. 
She  sank  upon  her  sister's  breast, 

Yet  not  a  word  she  spoke  ; 
They  raised  her  from  her  place  of  rest, 

But  her  young  heart  was  broke  !  ,. 


GOD    SEEN    IN    ALL   HIS   WORKS. 


IN  nature's  works  the  mind  alone 
The  character  of  God  can  trace ; 

Mortals  can  never  reach  his  throne, 
Nor  view  his  clear  unclouded  face. 


GOD   SEEN    IN   ALL   HIS   WORKS. 

But  in  this  beauteous  world  which  He 
Form'd  by  his  power,  made  by  his  skill, 

His  wisdom  and  his  love  we  see, 
In  every  mountain,  vale  and  hill. 

Yon  azure  dome  of  brilliant  gems, 

Glimmering  beneath  their  hallowed  light — 

Hung  round  like  mystic  diadems, 
Gilding  the  lonely  hours  of  night. 

And  this  fair  earth,  among  those  spheres, 
What  human  thought  could  form  such  plan  ; 

So  equal  poise  through  rolling  years, 
This  beautiful  abode  of  man  ! 

What  monument  of  art,  what  skill 
Could  form  a  body  like  our  own  ; 

Who  has  the  power,  had  he  the  will, 
To  speak  and  let  the  work  be  done  ? 

The  eye  within  its  orbit  bright, 
Paints  the  whole  range  of  nature  fair, 

The  ear,  that  organ  of  delight, 

With  its  perceptions,  what  compare  ? 

What  harmony,  what  pleasing  sounds 
Rush  o'er  the  mind  by  his  keen  sense  ; 

What  rapture  o'er  the  spirit  bounds, 
Bearing  the  soul  of  feeling  hence. 

Not  only  man  his  wisdom  shows, 
The  violet  and  the  rose  he  paints  ; 

The  little  birds  in  shady  groves, 

Warble  in  measures  soft  their  plaints. 

Nor  yet  for  man  his  beauties  shine, 
In  forests  deep,  and  climes  unknown, 


THE  ROSE  of  i  VAN HEN,  241 

Bright  flowers  with  fragrant  shrubs  entwine, 
And  waft  their  sweetness  to  his  throne. 

In  ocean's  depths  we  see  his  love* 

In  pearls  which  glitter  'neath  its  waves  ; 

No  eye  but  his  can  o'er  them  rove, 
Nor  view  them  in  their  coral  gravesi 

But  the  perfection  of  his  love 

Is  found  not  in  these  works  alone , 
The  mind  of  man  lit  from  above, 

Sits  regent  on  wide  nature's  throne. 


THE    ROSE   OF   IVANHEN, 


DR   A   TALE   OF   THE   AMERICAN   REVOLUTION, 


I\  deep  sequestered  haunts  of  forest  shade. 

Unseen  by  any  save  the  spirit  God, 
The  Indian  lone  with  silent  footsteps  stray'd, 

With  quiver  at  his  back  and  fishing  rod. 
While  wandering  'mid  the  green-wood  he  espied, 
As  by  a  river's  purling  stream  he  lay, 

Watching  the  ripples  on  its  silvery  tide, 

A  cottage  in  the  distance  far  away. 

Attracted  by  the  curling  smoke,  he  drew 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  the  lovely  spot, 
Where  the  green  grass  yet  wet  with  the  morning  dew, 

Gleam'd  in  the  sun-shine  round  the  white  man's  cott 
v 


243  OE  A  TALE   OF   THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION. 

Screen'd  from  its  inmates  by  the  leafy  bowers, 
He  drew  his  bow  and  by  an  arbor  fled  ; 

A  maiden  seated  'mid  the  blooming  flowers, 
Startled  in  terror  at  his  hasty  tread. 

Fleet  as  the  wind  she  darted  from  his  sight— 

Entranc'd  he  stood  as  through  the  grove  she  flew, 
Then  to  the  woods  with  meaning  took  his  flight, 

Resolv'd  on  pleasures  which  he  never  knew. 
Close  was  the  council — secret,  subtle,  still — 

With  them  o'er  whom  he  reigned,  and  then  away  ; 
Each  one  retired,  such  measures  to  fulfil 

As  he  should  name  upon  another  day. 


'Twas  morning  when  Oachim  sought  the  stream, 

Rolling  in  silence  through  the  forest  drear ; 
Where  scorching  sun-beams  never  pierc'd,  nor  gleam 

Of  brightness  warm'd  the  gushing  waters  near. 
With  half-closed  hands  he  raised  the  cooling  draught, 

And  eager  quaffed  it  from  the  hunter's  bowl ; 
Then  with  a  bound,  despising  boat  and  craft, 

He  cleared  the  brook,  gliding  with  noiseless  roll. 

Swiftly  he  sped  his  course,  for  well  he  knew 

The  mazy  pathway  of  the  woods  to  thread, 
Then  soon  with  rapid  bounds  was  lost  to  view, 

And  none  knew  where  his  path  mysterious  led. 
Yet  he  himself  knew  well  the  winding  way 

Which  led  him  through  the  deep  entangled  wood, 
His  spirit  lingered  on  the  sunny  day, 

When  first  before  fair  Ivanhen  he  stood. 
****** 

Thick  heavy  clouds  lower'd  o'er  Niagara's  foam, 
The  fierce  winds  swept  in  wrath  their  mystic  lyre, 

The  chainless  tempest  from  its  stormy  home, 
Scatter'd  amazement  and  destruction  dire  ! 


THE    ROSE   OF    IVANHEN,  243 

The  mountain  eagle  from  his  dizzy  height, 

Screaming  survey'd  the  elemental  war  ; 
Swiftly  he  circled  in  the  gleaming  light, 

Wheeling  and  darting  boldly  near  and  far. 

When  on  a  cliff  towering  above  the  foam, 

Amid  the  waning  cataract's  heaving  surge, 
Oachim  stood !  strange  that  'mid  wind  and  storm, 

He  from  the  forest  dark  should  dare  emerge. 
His  mien  was  manly  and  his  brow  was  bare 

As  the  cold  rocks  on  which  his  damp  feet  press'd ; 
Unawed  he  stood  amid  the  lightning's  glare 

Which  scathed  the  forests  on  the  mountain's  crest. 

With  sudden  bound  he  darted  down  the  steep, 

From  cliff  to  cliff  with  fearless  speed  he  sprang ; 
Anon  he  took  a  wild  impetuous  leap, 

And  the  dark  caverns  with  his  war-song  rang. 
Toward  a  ravine  dark  his  course  he  wound, 

Plunged  'mid  those  depths  where  oft  at  eve  he  roved ; 
The  waving  winds,  the  thunder's  distant  sound, 

Form'd  the  sweet  music  which  his  spirit  loved. 

Dark  night  approach'd,  and  with  the  closing  day 

The  winds  were  gather'd  to  their  rocky  caves  ; 
The  moon  shone  fitful  with  a  shivering  ray, 

Lighting  the  summits  of  the  crested  waves. 
Onward  he  walked,  the  dim  stars  were  his  guide, 

Threading  the  forest  by  the  moon's  pale  light, 
'Till  by  a  mountain's  dark  and  sombrous  side, 

He  stood  where  silence  made  a  deeper  night ! 

Then  broke  his  voice  amid  the  desert  drear, 
And  quick  before  him  rose  a  hideous  crew ; 

Then  came  a  maiden  overwhelm'd  with  fear, 
Shrieking,  as  forth  her  trembling  form  they  drew  ! 


244 


With  searching  glance  she  eyed  «ach  tawny  sou 
As  round  they  gathered  in  their  close  debate, 

'Till  she  beheld  her  loved,  her  cherish'd  one, 
The  doomed  object  of  their  deadliest  hate. 

Bursting  the  barriers  that  opposed  her  way, 

She  bounded  forward  with  a  strength  unknown 
Before  that  hour,  in  terror  and  dismay, 

Like  a  young  bird  when  from  its  prison  flown. 
Pale  was  her  face,  her  hair  dishevelled  hung 

In  raven  ringlets  'round  her  neck  of  snow  ; 
In  wild  despair  she  to  her  lover  clung, 

Himself  the  picture  of  the  deepest  wo ! 

Loud  rang  the  yell,  the  woods  gave  back  the  sound, 

The  raven  answer'd  to  the  startling  cry ! 
When  quick  as  lightning,  with  a  screech  and  bound, 

A  hundred  Indian's  from  their  coverts  fly  ! 
"  Haste  to  the  torture  !"  cried  the  savage  chief, 

He  who  had  trod  the  mountain  top  alone ; 
"  Kindle  the  faggots,  let  the  work  be  brief, 

The  fair  will  smile  ere  half  your  task  is  done." 

With  fierce  demoniac  stare  he  eyed  the  maid 

As  to  her  lover's  breast  her  spirit  drew  ; 
Then  with  his  bold  uplifted  arm  he  sway'd 

A  scalping-knife,  stained  with  a  crimson  hue  ! 
"  Unbind  them,  loose  them,  let  the  flames  ascend — 

Curl  'round  their  forms  and  wreath  amid  the  air  ; 
With  their  deep  groans  let  savage  voices  blend, 

For  thus  shall  die  the  beautiful  and  fair. 

But  if  the  lily  will  the  Indian  wed, 

And  wander  with  him  through  the  green  wood  shade 
The  heather  flowers  shall  form  our  bridal  bed, 

£>ur  nuptial  song  shall  be  the  bright  cascade. 


THE   ROSE  OF  IVANHBN,  246' 

Her  friend  shall  live  and  learn  to  twang  the  bow, 
With  us  ascend  the  mountain's  dizzy  height ; 

O'er  the  blue  waters  skim  the  light  canoe, 
And  smoke  the  calumet  'neath  the  moon's  pale  light." 

The  Indian  knelt,  strong  passions  fired  his  breast ; 

His  stalwart  arm  hung  powerless  by  his  side  ; 
His  bosom  heaved  with  feelings  long  suppress'd, 

While  life's  red  current  'round  his  heart  seemed  dried  !. 
Like  forest  trees  the  red  men  stood  around 

With  folded  arm, .yet- no  one  stirred  or  spoke ; 
Not  e'en  a  footstep  gave  its  starling  sound, 

Nor  zephyr's  breath  the  awful  silence  broke  ! 

The  maid  with  calmness  raised  her  burning  head 

From  off  her  lover's  ever  faithfurbreast ; 
Where,  though  each  glimmering  ray  of  hope  had  fled. 

She,  for  a  moment,  found  a  heaven  of  rest. 
Her  eye  indignant  on  Oachim  cast 

A  look  of  stern  contempt,  when  from  afar 
Was  heard  the  echo  of  a  trumpet's  blast, 

And  trampings  of  an  army  trained  for  war!. 


Embowered  within  a  deep  umbrageous  wood, 

Through  which  the  Susquehannah  winds  its  way, 
Dwelt  Elbarn  and  Lavinia  the  good, 

A  lovelier  pair  ne'er  saw  the  light  of  day. 
One  child  was  theirs,  who,  'neath  their  tender  care, 

Grew  like  the  wild  flowers  blushing  in  the  glen  ; 
They  gazed  delighted  on  her  beauty  rare, 

Aad  called  their  pride  the  Rose  of  Ivanhen. 

When  all  was  calm  as  autumn's  closing  day, 

And  soft  as  evening's  latest  sigh, 
Death  called  Lavinia  from  her  child  away, 
•  And  wrapt  in  gloom  her  bright  unclouded  sky  !. 


210  OR   A    TALK   OF    THE   AMERICAN    REVOLUTION. 

Beneath  a  father's  eye  the  maiden  grew, 
In  every  grace  his  constant  joy  and  care  ; 

A  treasured  being  chaste  as  morning  dew, 
And  fair  as  chaste,  and  good  as  she  was  fair. 

Young  Amyr  sought  this  lily  of  the  vale, 

Their  vows  were  plighted,  life  and  bliss  were  their?  ; 
When  war's  dread  tocsin  floated  on  the  gale, 

And  smiles  dispersed  'mid  gloomy  doubts  and  tear?. 
Elburn,  in  whose  pure  patiotic  soul 

The  love  of  country  swayed  its  magic  power, 
Phaced  his  own  name  upon  the  nation's  roll, 

Left  his  sweet  home  and  his  young  opening  flower. 

Left  in  the  wild  wood,  with  Hortense  her  friend, 

The  child  he  loved ;  not  to  gain  applause 
Allured  him  onward — while  love's  accent's  blend, 

His  heart  beat  purer  for  a  holier  cause. 
From  Saratoga's  crimsoned  heights  he  sent 

Young  Amyr,  who  fought  boldly  by  his  side, 
To  Ivanhen.     He  left  his  guarded  tent, 

And  sought  with  transport  his  affianced  bride. 


Sad  and  alone  remained  the  lovely  maid, 

Her  father,  Amyr,  those  she  loved  away  ; 
Within  a  bower  through  which  the  light  breeze  played, 

One  morn  she  wound  her  solitary  way. 
While  musing,  near  her  whizzed  a  feather'd  dart, 

And  soon  an  Indian  bounded  from  the  glen  } 
He  saw  the  maiden,  and  his  savage  heart 

Bowed  to  Lamine,  the  Rose  of  Ivanhen. 

Alarmed,  she  sought  a  more  secure  retreat, 
And  with  Hortense  her  lonely  vigils  kept ; 

'Till  Amyr  came,  what  joy  was  theirs  to  meet, 
As  to  his  bosom  her  fond  spirit  leapt ! 


THE   ROSE    OF    1VANHEN,  247 

The  morning  dawned,  and  with  Hortense  their  friend, 
Who  nursed  Lamine  during  her  childhood  hours, 

They  left,  where  fond  associations  blend 
With  trees  and  shrubs,  green  fields  and  shady  bowers. 

Lo !  from  the  hills  as  fast  they  speed  their  way 

To  their  lov'd  father  on  the  embattled  field, 
A  savage  hord  rushed  on  their  precious  prey, 

Who  unresisting  to  their  numbers  yield. 
For  in  the  tangled  wood,  'mid  brake  and  brier, 

They  dragged  their  victims,  bound  them  to  a  tree  ; 
Then  in  debate  around  their  council  fire. 

Planned  their  deep  schemes  of  horrid  villany. 

From  time  to  time  the  Indian  hunter  came, 

Besought  and  wooed  the  Rose  of  Ivanhen  ; 
'Twas  vain,  and  passions  which  no  force  can  tame, 

Aroused  the  vengeance  of  the  savage  men. 
Hortense,  the  nurse,  crept  unobserved  away, 

While  all  were  in  narcotic  slumbers  bound  ; 
A  look  exchanged  with  Lamine  that  day, 

Revealed  her  purpose  as  she  stole  around. 

When  from  their  sleep  the  savage  tribe  awoke, 

And  saw  their  prisoner  from  their  circle  gone, 
Their  wrath  rekindled,  and  their  fury  broke 

Like  clouds  when  by  a  sudden  whirlwind  torn. 
Apart  the  lovers  wept  'till  tears  were  dry, 

Then  to  enrbrace,  e'en  at  the  stake,  was  sweet ; 
On  wings  of  love  they  to  each  other  fly, 

And  'mid  their  foes  their  souls  delight  to  meet. 


Where  the  shrill  tocsin  tolled  its  startling  peal ! 

Where  cannon's  roar  and  hostile  armies  stood  ; 
Where  ranks  o'er  ranks  in  wild  confusion  reel, 

'Till  e'en  the  green  earth  reddens  with  their  blood — 


248     OR  A  TALE  OF  THE  AMERICAN  REVOLUTION. 

Elburn  undaunted  met  the  battle  strife, 

Nor  yielded  till  through  long  delay  he  feared 

For  Amyr  and  his  young  affianced  wife, 
From  whom  no  tidings  and  no  sign  appear'd. 

Within  his  tent  sleep  fled  his  weary  eye, 

Suspense,  that  withering  harpy  of  the  soul, 
Which  neither  lets  its  victim  live  or  die, 

Around  his  spirit  wound  its  dread  control. 
'Till  from  Hortense  a  letter  he  received — 

She  had  escaped — a  captive  was  his  child  .' 
The  dreadful  tidings  pained,  while  they  relieved, 

His  face  was  flush'd,  his  wandering  eye  was  wild  • 

"  Who'll  save  my  child  ?  the  wretched  father  cried, 

"  For  what  is  life  to  me  without  Lamine  ? 
Lavina's  gift  on  the  sad  morn  she  died — 

The  only  ray  that  lit  the  gloomy  scene." 
With  rapid  strides  he  to  his  children  flew, 

O'er  hills  and  dales,  through  tangled  wood  and  glen  ; 
Brave  hearts  of  oak  for  lore  their  sabres  drew, 

Resolved  to  save  the  Rose  of  Ivanhen. 


List !  on  the  dim  air  comes  again  a  sound  ! 

The  martial  tramp,  the  bugle's  notes  from  far  I 
Oachim,  fearful  lest  his  prey  unbound 

Escape  his  fury,  now  prepares  for  war ! 
"  Apply  the  torch,  quick  !  let  the  flames  arise  ! 

Bow  every  knee,  and  with  your  quivering  breath, 
Blow  up  the  fire  'till  it  enwrap  the  skies, 

And  fill  the  air  with  poisoned  darts  and  death  ! 

Louder  and  louder  came  the  trumpet's  blast, 

The  cannon's  roar  the  deep  damp  ravines  shook; 

In  wild  despair  the  timid  Indians  haste, 
Seeking  concealment  in  each  tree  and  nook. 


THE  HOSE   FO   I  VAN HEN.  249 

To  Amyr's  bosom  clung  th'  affrighted  maid, 
When  on  a  war  horse  darting  fearless  by ; 

Elburn,  with  eagle  eye  and  flashing  blade, 
Was  quick  arrested  by  his  daughter's  cry  ! 

He  caught  her  fainting,  while  her  lover  leapt 

Like  a  fierce  vulture  pouncing  on  his  prey; 
Dealing  destruction  as  his  falchion  swept 

Each  tawny  son  down  time's  oblivious  way, 
The  fearful  war-whoop  rang  on  every  side, 

With  nicest  skill  the  red  men  drew  the  bow ; 
The  whites  prevail,  and  in  his  hasty  stride, 

Young  Amyr  lit  upon  his  mortal  foe  J 

Grasping  Oachim  with  his  powerful  arm, 

He  flung  him  head-long  on  the  smoking  fire  ; 
Anon  the  Indian,  filled  with  passions  warm, 

Seized  firm  his  victim,  ready  to  expire. 
Awhile  they  struggled,  every  nerve  was  strung, 

To  die  or  conquer,  passion,  vengeance  swayed 
Their  sinewy  arms,  till  fiercely  Amyr  flung 

Oachim  breathless  on  the  forest  glade, 

Then  to  Lamina  with  joyful  haste  he  flew, 
And  to  his  bosom  held  her  close  and  long ; 

Old  Elburn  smild,  his  soul  was  young  and  new, 
While  victor  shouts  rose  from  the  parting  throng. 


The  goddess  Peace  soon  wound  her  silvery  horn, 
Its  thrilling  echoes  cheered  the  hearts  of  men  ; 

The  heavens  exulted  o'er  a  nation  born, 
And  Eden  bloomed  once  more  in  Ivenhen. 


850 


SHUN   THE   WINE   CUP. 


"  LOOK  not  upon  the  wine  cup  when  it  is  red,  when  it  giveth  his 
color  in  the  cup,  when  it  moveth  itself  aright :  At  the  last  it  biteth 
like  a  serpent,  and  stingeth  like  an  adder." — Prrov.  xxiii.  v.  31,  32. 

OH  !  shun  the  wine  cup — dash  the  flowing  bowl ; 
Trust  not  the  witchery  of  its  soft  control ; 
Dangers  lie  hid  beneath  its  sparkling  foam, 
Satyrs  and  harpies  round  the  goblit  roam. 
Oh  !  shun  the  meteor,  whose  illusive  light 
Will  lead  thee  down  to  everlasting  night ; 
Oh  !  shun  the  syren,  whose  bewildering  breath 
Is  steep'd  in  hemlock,  nightshade,  rue,  and  death ! 
Trust  not  the  Lethean  spring,  its  powers  will  fail 
To  lull  thy  senses  through  death's  gloomy  vale ; 
Vain  then  its  strength,  its  magic  influence  flies, 
And  he  who  tastes  the  deadly  Upas — dies  ! 
Trust  not  the  imagery  which  paints  its  sky — 
As  you  pursue,  the  vision  fair  will  fly ; 
The  clouds  collect,  the  bursting  thunders  roll, 
And  forked  lightnings  sweep  each  trembling  pole  ! 
Such  the  dense  darkness  of  the  thrilling  scene, 
No  light  amid  the  shadows  intervene  ; 
No  cheering  ray,  no  hope  of  promise  gleams — 
Awakened  horros  from  bewildering  dreams, 
Seize  on  the  soul — it  shrieks  amid  its  wo, 
And  wailing  sinks  within  the  gulf  below  ! 
Sinks,  where  no  sound  of  mercy  ever  hies — 
Sinks,  where  the  conscience  never,  never  dies — 
Sinks,  where  the  waves  eternally  will  roll 
The  waves  of  justice  o'er  the  ruined  soul ! 


COME   BRING  THE   HARP.  251 

The  soul !  great  God !  the  soul  which  fain  would  hide, 
Would  shun  thy  frown  beneath  th'  o'erwhelming  tide  ; 
That  soul  immortal,  by  the  wine  cup  stain, 
Shall  seek  for  death,  and  ever  seek  in  vain ! 


COME   BRING   THE   HARP. 


COME  bring  the  harp,  'tis  memory's  hour, 
A  spell  is  winding  round  my  soul 

Which  melts  at  music's  magic  power, 
And  faints  beneath  its  soft  control. 

Come  bring  the  harp,  my  senses  wake, 
My  heart  beats  quick  with  mental  fire, 

Oh,  sweep  the  chords,  though  life  should  break 
Beneath  the  breathings  of  the  lyre. 

Come  bring  the  harp,  and  let  it  steal, 

Like  summer  winds  o'er  blushing  flowers, 

Sweep  the  low  notes  till  they  reveal 
The  dreamy  bliss  of  life's  young  hours. 

Oh,  sing  of  joys  for  ever  flown, 

Of  hopes  which  cheered  me  with  their  light ; 
Hopes,  false  as  fair,  for  ever  gone, 

And  mourn  with  me  their  early  flight. 

Ay,  sing  to  me  of  other  days, 
Warble  again  the  plaintive  strain 

Which  echoed  through  the  winding  ways, 
And  thrilled  life's  every  circling  vein. 


252  KINES   WRITTEN   IN  SICKNESS. 

Sing  on,  till  'neath  the  moon|s  pale  beams 
On  clouds  of  azure  light  enthroned, 

Are  seen  the  loved  of  life's  young  dreams, 
With  golden  harps  and  garlands  crowned. 

Then  raise  each  note,  sweep  every  string, 
Till  with  that  choir  they  mingk  sweet, 

'Neath  music's  power,  on  fancy's  wing, 
I'd  soar  where  youth  and  beauty  meet. 


LINES   WRITTEN  IN  SICKNESS. 


How  sweet  is  health  !  no  earthly  good 
Can  vie  with  what  its  joys  impart ; 

There  is  no  pleasure  but  I  would 

Dispense  with,  would  it  reach  my  heart. 

Oh !  who  can  paint  the  restless  hours, 
The  feverish  dreams,  the  nervous  dread  ; 

When  prostrate  by  disease,  our  powers 
Shrink  from  the  lightest,  softest  tread. 

How  oft  our  choicest  blessings  teaze, 
And  when  we  feel  ourselves  alone, 

How  dreadful  then  to  view  disease 
Sit  regent  on  its  ebon  throne  I 

To  feel  each  vigorous  thought  restrained, 
Compelled  by  weakness  to  expire  ; 

Each  effort  of  the  mind  enchained, 
Though  kindled  by  Promethean  fire. 


TIME,   OR   THE   NEW   YEAR.  253 

How  beautiful  and  bright  the  world 
When  from  our  couch  of  pain  we  rise  ; 

See  nature's  glories  all  unfurled, 
Rejoicing  'neath  the  sunny  skies. 

Around  this  beauteous  world  I  gaze, 

And  love  to  trace  in  all  I  see, 
Wonders  which  wrap  one  in  amaze, 

And  link  me  with  the  Deity. 

'Tis  the  perfections  of  my  God, 

Which  stamp  this  world  with  all  that's  fair; 
And  'tis  when  bending  'neath  his  rod, 

I  view  his  kindness  and  his  care. 

Oh !  let  me  look  where  all  is  bright, 

Where  opening  scenes  the  hours  beguile  ; 

Where  heaven  reflects  the  dazzling  light, 
Enkindled  by  Jehovah's  smile. 


TIME,    OR   THE   NEW   YEAR 


YEAR  after  year  with  eagle  flight, 
On  time's  swift  wing  bears  us  away ; 

Toward  the  tomb's  oblivious  night, 
Uncheer'd  by  life's  brief  twinkling  ray. 

Just  entering  on  the  period  new, 
'Tis  wisdom's  part  to  eye  the  past ; 

To  take  one  short  and  serious  view 
Of  objects  which  have  fled  so  fast. 


254  TIME,  OR  THE  NEW  YEAR. 

If  fancy  range  through  tracts  of  time, 
And  see  yon  sun  commence  his  roll, 

All  nature  rising  grand,  sublime, 

With  splendors  bright  from  pole  to  pole. 

Survey  those  orbs,  those  mighty  spheres, 
That  deck  yon  azure  vaulted  sky, 

Begin  their  circling  round  of  years, 
Which  o'er  this  wide  creation  fly. 

How  soon  amid  this  brilliant  scene 

Are  change  and  clouds  here  seen  to  rise, 

Fierce  storms  and  darkness  intervene, 
And  hide  this  vision  from  our  eyes. 

Along  time's  deep  engulfing  stream 

The  proud  waves  dash,  the  billows  roar ; 

Earth's  brightest  glories,  like  a  dream, 
Are  buried,  lost,  and  seen  no  more. 

Lo  !  cities,  kingdoms,  empires  vast, 

Like  mouldering  wrecks  beneath  the  ware, 

Are  down  in  awful  ruins  cast, 

To  sleep  in  time's  oblivious  grave. 

His  withering  look,  his  awful  frown, 
But  falls  on  cities  soaring  high  ; 

Their  walls,  their  loftiest  towers  haste  down, 
Straight  in  the  mouldering  dust  to  lie. 

We  see  the  fate,  we  read  the  doom, 
Of  grandest  nations  in  their  fall ; 

How  swift  their  transit  to  that  tomb 

Where  time's  brief  years  inurn  them  all. 

What  mortal  power  can  stay  his  course, 
Or  stay  one  hour  his  rolling  tide  ? — 


TIME,   OR   THE   NEW   YEAR.  256 

Which  hurrying  with  resistless  force, 

-  Lays  thrones  and  kingdoms  side  by  side. 

The  warrior's  brow  with  laurels  crown'd, 
From  crimson'd  fields  and  millions  slain  ; 

The  statesman  rais'd  to  high  renown, 
He" views  alike  with  proud  disdain. 

The  marble  rear'd,  by  pride  to  last, 
The  scroll  of  fame,  the  sculptur'd  urn, 

Touch'd  by  his  glance,  his  withering  blast, 
All  into  ruin'd  dust  return. 

Beneath  his  power  all  nature  fades, 

The  hills,  the  trees,  the  flowery  vales, 
The  moss-clad  rocks,  the  forest  glades, 

And  mountains  lash'd  by  thousand  gales. 

He  withers  beauty,  mocks  at  power, 

All  human  glory  laughs  to  scorn — 
Sends  to  the  grave  in  one  short  hour> 

All  which  the  noblest  art  adorn. 

The  highest  place  which  man  enjoys, 

Time  views  as  fleeting,  empty  vain  ; 
As  nought  but  phantoms,  childish  toys, 

Which  dying  mortals  strive  to  gain. 

He  smiles  to  see  ambition  climb, 

Throgh  strife  and  blood  yon  dizzy  height^ 

To  take  its  stand  on  hill  sublime, 
But  to  sink  down  in  endless  night. 

As  bubbles  on  the  ocean  tost, 

On  which  the  loudest  tempests  sweep, 
So  man  appears,  is  seen,  then  lost, 

Amid  old  Time's  unfathora'd  deep. 


256  TIME,  OR  THE   NEW  YEAR. 

What  then  is  wealth,  or  pomp,  or  power, 
That  struggling  millions  strive  to  find, 

But  toys  which  fleeting  years  devour, 
Nor  leave  one  wither'd  wreck  behind  ? 

What  numbers  of  that  smiling  throng, 
The  young,  the  cheerful,  thoughtless  gay, 

Whose  hours  are  fill'd  with  mirth  and  song, 
This  new-born  year  will  sweep  away. 

From  earth,  and  time,  and  kindred  dear, 
From  those  bright  skies,  from  yonder  sun, 

To  the  lone  tomb  where  silence  drear, 
Proclaims  life's  hasty  glass  is  run. 

Since,  like  a  conqueror  o'er  our  world, 
The  flight  of  years  blasts  every  flower; 

And  all  earth's  brightest  joys  are  hurl'd 
Down  to  the  grave  in  one  short  hour. 

We'll  look  above  these  rolling  spheres, 
Where  time's  swift  changes  never  come, 

Beyond  the  reach  of  wasting  years, 
To  our  eternal  Father's  home, 

Where  bloom  and  beauty  never  fade, 
And  virtue's  charms  will  never  die ; 

Nor  sin,  nor  pain,  nor  death  invade, 
Nor  sorrow's  tears  bedim  the  eye, 


257 


A   MORNING   WALK 


I  WANDER 'D  forth  at  early  day 

Upon  the  dewy  lawn, 
7  o  catch  the  sun's  first  golden  ray 

Which  lighted  up  the  dawn. 

Through  fields  and  glens,  'mid  akies  serene, 

With  sweet  delight  I  rov'd, 
And  gaz'd  upon  the  enchanting  scene 

Which  then  my  bosom  mov'd. 

Well  pleas'd,  I  cropt  each  opening  flow'r, 

And  drank  unmingled  bliss 
From  roses  wild,  from  honied  bow'r, 

And  zephyrs  balmy  kiss. 

The  sun  rose  bright  without  a  cloud, 

Its  splendors  round  me  threw, 
As  earth  and  sea,  and  mountains  proud, 

Met  my  enraptur'd  view. 

The  mists  curl'd  graceful  from  the  trees, 
From  bushes,  brake  and  grove  ; 

And  in  fantastic  fold  and  wreaths, 
Soon  vanish'd  far  above. 

The  little  birds  around  me  drew, 

And  carol'd  sweet  their  lay  ; 
Spread  wide  their  beauteous  wings  and  flew 

To  hail  the  new-born  day. 


A   MORNING  WALK. 

They  warbled  forth  their  notes  of  love 

In  praises  to  their  king ; 
Made  every  spot  around,  above, 

And  every  valley  ring. 

The  torrents  sound  so  loud  and  deep, 

Came  rolling  on  my  ear, 
While  dashing  o'er  the  rocky  steep, 

In  waters  pure  and  clear. 

The  heaving  billows  lash'd  the  shore, 

Urg'd  on  by  distant  storms ; 
I  listen'd  to  their  solemn  roar, 

And  watch'd  their  varying  forms. 

Their  crested  waves,  like  mirrors  bright, 

Were  circling  full  in  view  ; 
Their  summits  caught  the  sun's  first  light, 

And  shone  with  every  hue. 

Transfix'd  and  rapt  amid  the  scene, 

I  gaz'd  with  transport,  round, 
And  wonder'd  if  it  were  a  dream, 

Upon  enchanted  ground. 

From  this  brief  spot  I  turn'd  my  eyes 

To  my  eternal  home, 
To  that  blest  morn  beyond  the  skies, 

Where  night  can  never  come. 


259 


TO   MRS.   SIGOURNEY. 


THY  peerless  lay,  thy  soothing  song, 
Falls  sweetly  on  my  listening  ear  ; 

In  sounds  melodious  floats  along, 
Like  richest  music  soft  and  clear. 

Pure  is  the  fount  from  which  they  flow, 
The  fervent  breathings  of  thy  soul, 

Thy  numbers  melting,  thrilling,  slow, 
In  lucid  sweetness  o'er  me  roll. 

A  sacred  charm  thy  words  impart, 
A  rush  of  feeling  which  I  love, 

They  come  directly  to  my  heart, 
And  o'er  my  senses  gently  move. 

Thy  songs  I  love  divinely  sweet, 

So  strangely  winding  round  each  sense, 

My  mingled  passions  as  they  meet, 
Bear  my  enraptured  spirit  hence. 

I  love  thy  mild,  subduing  strains, 
They  melt  the  ice-drops  of  my  heart, 

And  give  within  my  circling  veins 
The  blood  a  quicker,  purer  start. 

I  love  to  mingle  in  thy  dreams, 
I  love  to  share  thy  upward  flight, 

I  love  to  wander  through  those  scenes 
Which  gave  thee  once  such  pure  delight. 

But  most  of  all,  I  love  thy  lay 
Which  pictures  forth  domestic  bliss, 


200  THE   SERENADE. 

As  round  thy  feet  thy  children  play, 
And  share  with  thee  the  envied  kiss. 

To  thee  belongs  the  magic  touch, 
To  kindle,  waken,  and  enflame 

Each  dormant  sense  ;  thy  power  is  such, 
That  man's  rude  passion  it  can  tame. 

Thy  power  is  such  it  melts  the  soul, 
And  draws  a  tear  from  beauty's  eyes, 

E'en  vice  turns  from  the  madd'ning  bowl, 
And  from  the  pois'nous  chalice  flies. 

Thy  pensive  moans,  thy  plaintive  strain, 
Deep  touch  a  chord  within  my  breast, 

Tell  me  life's  joys  are  fleeting  vain, 
That  man  has  here  no  settled  rest. 

Mild  be  the  beamings  of  thine  eye, 
As  faith  lights  up  the  coming  hour, 

When  earth's  loved  scenes  shall  fade  and  die, 
And  thy  rapt  spirit  upward  soar. 

Oh,  may  that  grace  which  gilds  the  bed 
Of  death  and  shines  with  kindling  ray, 

Cast  its  bright  splendors  round  thy  head, 
And  waft  thee  to  a  brighter  day. 


THE   SERENADE. 


IT  was  a  lovely  evening, 
All  nature  seemed  at  rest, 

Alike  an  infant  sleeping 
Upon  its  mother's  breast. 


THE   SEESNADE.  261 

The  silvery  moon  revealing 

Its  brightness  through  the  trees, 
When  music  sweetly  stealing, 

Rose  on  the  gentle  breeze. 

The  strains  melodious  lingered  • 

Upon  the  listening  ear. 
Mid  evening's  stilly  softness, 
Like  rushing  waters  clear. 

They  come  upon  the  weary 

Like  seraph  songs  above, 
Floating  in  sweetness  round  them, 

Breathing  the  notes  of  love. 

Sweet  are  thy  charms,  oh,  music, 

We  bow  before  thy  shrine, 
And  thanks  from  beauty's  bosom,- 

Brave  band  be  truly  thine. 

Thanks  for  those  thrilli  c;  numbers, 

Which  rich  in  raptures  roll, 
Entrancing  all  the  senses, 

And  stealing  through  the  soul. 

Thanks  to  each  kind  musitian, 

And  these  bright  sylvian  bowers, 
Like  the  enchanting  evening, 

Be  all  their  future  hours. 


STANZAS. 


THE  following  lines  were  written  on  reading  an  article  in  the 
Literary  Gem,  on  the  meeting  of  the  pure  in  heart. 

OH  !  yes,  the  pure  in  heart  shall  meet 
In  heaven,  their  voices  mingle  sweet — 

Shall  wake  the  breathing  lyre  ; 
Rolling  in  melting,  thrilling  strains, 
For  ever  o'er  the  etherial  plains, 
Where  one  eternal  echo  reigns, 

From  notes  which  never  tire. 

Souls  which  on  earth  drank  in  their  bliss 
From  viewing  others  happiness, 

Delighted  there  shall  rove  ; 
Shall  ramble  o'er  the  perfumed  glade, 
With  amaranthine  flowers  arrayed, 
Recline  beneath  their  crimson  shade, 

And  bathe  in  seas  of  love* 

Look  backward  on  the  parting  hour* 
When  nature  sunk  beneath  the  power 

Of  the  destroyer,  death  ! 
When  love  hung  o'er  the  sufferer's  bed, 
Wept,  as  each  trace  of  reason  fled, 
Pressed  to  her  heart  the  wildcring  head, 

And  caught  her  last  drawn  breath. 

Where  the  bright  seraph  spreads  his  wmg> 
The  pure  in  heart  shall  meet  and  sing — 


263 


"  Sin,  pain,  and  death  no  more  ! — 
Sin,  pain,  and  death  are  fled,"  they  cry, 
"  For  ever  fled,"  the  saints  reply  ; 
Cherubic  armies  sound  it  high — 

"  Sin,  pain,  and  death  no  more  I" 


LINES, 


WRITTEN    IN   VIEW   OF   THE   RIVER  THAMES,   THS   DEPOT,   STC. 


THE  busy  world  moves  swiftly  on, 
Nothing  prevents  its  rapid  roll ; 

The  magic  scenes  we  gaze  upon, 
Like  meteors  flash  athwart  the  soul. 

Soon  will  these  scenes  be  lost  to  me, 

These  bells,  this  steam,  these  cars  no  more 

Shall  I  behold — nor  shrub,  nor  tree, 
Upon  my  own  loved  sea-girt  shore. 

There  shall  I  muse  upon  these  hours, 
When  through  the  stilly  noon  of  night, 

I've  listend  to  their  mighty  powers, 
Nor  check 'd  my  spirit's  upward  flight. 

Immortal  Fulton  !  every  stream, 
From  fairy  Thames  to  Indies'  sea, 

Bears  on  its  crested  wave  thy  name, 
S  on  of  a  nation — proud  and  free  ! 


644 


Steam's  mighty  power  contracts  the  world, 
Impelled  forth  by  hidden  fires ; 

As  over  seas  and  mountains  whirled, 
It  rushes  on  and  never  tires. 

High  o'er  the  blue  waves,  like  a  bird, 
The  steamer  comes  with  spirits  rife  ; 

When  not  a  gossamer  veil  is  stirred 
By  gentle  breezes  true  to  life. 

Like  a  white  swan  in  pride  she  sails, 
With  snowy  breast  and  flashing  eye ; 

Hurries — whereon  the  glittering  rails, 
She  sees  the  cars  like  lightning  fly ! 

And  then  the  rush— the  tinkling  bells, 
The  roar  of  steam,  the  quick  exchange — 

The  parting  looks,  the  sad  farewells, 
As  each  to  different  countries  range. 

I'll  think  of  this  when  borne  along 
Majestic  o'er  the  watery  waste  ; 

Where  Naiads  chaunt  their  vesper  song, 
As  forth  the  evening  shadows  haste. 

And  when  on  my  beloved  isle, 

I  listen  to  the  Atlantic's  roar, 
I'll  speak  of  thee  where  young  eyes  smile, 

And  tell  thy  wonders  o'er  and  o'er. 


LINES, 


ON  THE  DEATH  OF  THE  AMIABLE  MRS.  P.  G.  GARDNER,  WIFE  OF  THK 

R1V.  R.  GARDNER,  AND  DAUGHTER  OF  COL.  S.  MILLER, 

OF  EAST  HAMPTON. 


HOPE'S  loveliest  vision  for  ever  has  fled, 
And  the  young  and  the  beautiful  sleep  with  the  dead ; 
Like  a  bright  summer-cloud  she  has  pass'd  from  our  eyes, 
But  its  brilliance  and  form  in  the  mind  never  dies. 

So  the  blast  of  the  tempest  goes  forth  in  its  wrath, 
And  the  lightnings  of  heav'n  scatter  death  in  their  path, 
And  the  sun  which  to-day  without  clouds  meets  our  eyes, 
To-morrow  's  eclips'd  in  his  path  through  the  skies. 

When  hope  smiles  the  sweetest,  'tis  often  the  hour  ; 
When  the  heart  moves  the  fleetest,  then  death  in  his  pow'r 
Dissolves  the  gay  frost-work  of  earthly  delight, 
And  hope,  love,  and  beauty,  expire  on  the  sight. 

Could  the  kindness  of  friends,  could  the  prayers  of  the  just, 
Could  the  tears  of  her  husband,  her  bosom's  first  trust, 
Have  arrested  the  blow,  the  stern  mandate  of  heav'n, 
And  back  to  their  arms  her  brief  loveliness  given, 
How  would  they  have  striven  the  stroke  to  evade ! 
And  sunlight  had  pierced  through  the  depth  of  the  shade. 

Vain,  vain  were  their  efforts,  for  the  signet  of  death 
Stood  pale  on  her  brow  as  they  watched  her  last  breath ; 
And  their  hopes,  like  the  leaves  of  the  autumn,  are  fled — 
Like  the  seared  leaves  of  autumn,  are  blighted  and  dead. 

x 


266  THE   MEETING   OF   FRIENDS. 

Oh,  torn  from  thy  friends  in  the  bright  morn  of  life, 

When  thy  days  were  the  sweetest ;  when  daughter  and  wife 

Softly  blended  together  in  a  mixture  of  bliss — 

When  a  mother's  warm  lips  gave  the  mother's  first  kiss  ; 

In  an  hour  when  thy  hopes  and  thy  joys  were  the  highest, 

And  all  thou  desired  or  wished  for  were  nighest ; 

In  those  hours  of  rapture  which  announced  thee  a  mother, 

Thou  wast  call'd  from  this  sphere  of  delight  to  another. 

Thou  hast  gone  in  thy  loveliness  down  to  the  tomb, 
Like  the  young  flowers  of  summer,  all  fresh  in  thy  bloom  ; 
While  the  wail  of  thy  babe  broke  low  on  thy  ear, 
And  drew  from  thy  bosom's  deep  fountain  a  tear. 

When  over  thy  soul  came  thy  husband's  deep  sigh, 
Like  the  sad  dirge  of  autumn  when  its  beauties  all  die, 
'Mid  the  heart's  desolation,  'mid  earth's  dreary  wild, 
One  gem  still  remains,  'tis  thy  own  precious  child : 
Now  sparkling  in  beauty,  to  the  mourner  'tis  given, 
To  remind  him  while  here  of  his  lov'd  one  in  heaven. 


THE   MEETING   OF   FRIENDS. 


THE  meeting  of  friends  !  oh,  what  joy  it  imparts, 
When  long  years  of  absence  have  vanished  away  ; 

What  melting  of  souls,  what  communion  of  hearts, 
What  thrills  of  delight  o'er  the  mind  sweetly  play. 

E'en  life  seems  to  tremble,  as  in  the  embrace 

The  warm  gush  of  feeling  flows  fresh  from  the  soul 

And  the  bright  tear  of  joy,  as  it  steals  down  the  face. 
Speaks  the  fulness  of  bliss  in  its  eloquent  roll. 


THE    SOLAR   SYSTEM.  267 

The  heart's  cheering  welcome,  the  kind  how  d'ye  do, 
The  smile  on  the  lip,  the  eye's  softened  glance, 

Show  the  feeling  of  love  ever  fervent  and  true, 
Which,  the  mines  of  the  Indies  could  never  enhance. 

Past  scenes,  past  enjoyments  rush  quick  o'er  the  mind, 
The  curtain  is  rais'd  by  Remembrance'  fond  hand, 

And  the  voices  of  love,  once  soothing  and  kind, 
Fall  sweet  on  the  ear  of  a  "  far  better  land." 

There  's  a  rapture  in  meeting  which  ne'er  can  be  told, 
But  in  its  intenseness  there  's  often  a  pain  ; 

And  the  heart's  warm  emotions  grow  frozen  and  cold, 
As  the  bosom  responds,  "  we  must  soon  part  again." 

Part  again  ?  oh,  beware  !  let  no  tincture  of  gloom 
Arise  to  destroy  this  bright  "  frost-work  of  bliss  ;" 

'Tis  the  raven  who  croaks,  let  him  speed  to  the  tomb, 
And  flap  his  broad  wings  where  the  foul  serpents  hiss. 

But  the  heart  will  rejoice  in  this  banquet  of  sweets, 
The  soul  will  exult  in  such  fulness  of  bliss  ; 

Dissolve,  as  transported  the  loved  one  it  greets, 
And  faints  'neath  the  touch  of  the  life-giving  kiss, 


THE   SOLAR    SYSTEM 


How  glorious  must  that  being  be 
Who  formed  creation  by  a  nod 

None  can  behold  his  brilliancy, 
Or  comprehend  him,  but  a  god. 


THE   SOLAE   SYSTEM. 

His  wond'rous  works,  His  power  divine, 
Inspire  with  awe  my  trembling  soul ; 

And  planets  as  they  sweetly  shine, 
Delight  me  with  their  ceaseless  roll. 

All  balanced  in  the  empty  air, 

All  marshalled  in  their  bright  array, 

System  outstretching  system  fair, 
All  lightly  moving  on  their  way. 

The  sun,  vast  luminary,  grand, 
A  centre  formed  of  blazing  fire, 

Around  which  worlds  at  God's  command 
Revolve  in  space  and  never  tire. 

No  human  power  can  scan  his  bound, 
Nor  comprehend  this  globe  of  flame  ; 

High  in  the  ether  rolling  round, 
As  bright  as  when  from  naught  it  came. 

First,  Mercury  takes  his  silent  course, 
And  his  burning  splendor  plays, 

Borne  onward  by  a  secret  force, 
To  revel  in  his  brilliant  rays. 

Next  Venus  comes,  the  lover's  star, 
The  earliest  in  evening's  train  ; 

Listening  she  hears  her  vows  afar, 
And  weeps  when  they  arc  false  and  vain. 

Earth  follows  on  with  steady  pride, 
And  round  and  round  delighted  rolls, 

Sailing  upon  the  etherial  tide, 
And  balancing  her  central  poles. 

Next  Mars,  the  god  of  war,  appears, 
Majestic  in  his  dizzy  height ; 


THE   SOLAR   SYSTEM. 

He  smiles  with  scorn  at  human  tears, 

And  urges  on  the  deadly  fight. 

A. 
Then  Jupiter,  with  face  divine, 

Is  seen  in  dazzling  splendor  drest, 
His  moons  around  him  sweetly  shine, 

Like  diamonds  'throned  on  beauty's  breast. 

Next  Saturn,  like  an  exiled  queen, 

Girt  with  a  lucid  zone  around, 
Far  in  the  distance,  lo  !  he  's  seen 

Alone  in  gloomy  grandeur  crowned. 

Last,  slowly  on  his  winding  ways, 
Arrayed  in  brilliant  robes  of  light, 

Herschel  his  sattelites  displays, 
Revolving  round  their  centre  bright. 

The  Comet  speeds  his  upward  flight, 
And  fearless  drives  his  fiery  car, 

Darting  amid  yon  worlds  of  light, 
Away  beyond  each  twinkling  star. 

Our  solar  system  placed  on  high, 

With  the  bright  sun  which  makes  our  day, 
Forms  but  a  speck  in  yon  arch'd  sky, 

Where  thousand  other  systems  play. 

Those  fixed  stars  to  other  spheres, 

Suns  larger  far  than  one  we  see, 
With  their  bright  beams  through  rolling  years, 

Proclaim  aloud  a  Deity  ! 

One  who  upholds  them  by  his  power, 
Who  formed  them  by  his  own  decree — 

"  Let  there  be  light !" — and  in  that  hour 
They  rushed  from  all  eternity ! 


*70 


Oh !  might  I  rise  through  boundless  space, 
Where  other  suns  and  systems  roll, 

And  gaze  upon  that  lovely  face. 
Whose  smiles  delight  the  enraptured  soul- 

Who  spake  !  and  straight  at  his  command, 
Each  twinkling  star  from  chaos  sprung ; 

Then  forth  from  his  almighty  hand, 
Abroad  like  sparkling  gems  was  flung. 


STANZAS, 

TO    MR.    AND    MRS.  P.,    OF    SAG   HARBOR,   ON   THE    RECENT   DEATH 
OF   THEIR   CHILD. 


WEEP,  for  the  cherub  of  beauty  has  fled, 
Mourn,  for  the  lovely  lies  shrouded  and  dead, 
Weep,  that  on  earth  he  no  longer  could  stay, 
Mourn,  that  so  soon  he  was  summoned  away. 

Weep  for  the  eyes  which  sparkled  so  bright, 
Are  closed  for  ever  and  shrouded  in  night ; 
Mourn,  for  the  light  which  around  him  he  threw, 
Was  brilliant  and  fleeting  as  morning's  light  dew. 

Weep  for  the  smile  which  played  over  his  face, 
For  those  dimples  which  charmed  when  in  your  embrace  ; 
For  that  smile  it  has  fled,  and  those  dimples  are  gone, 
And  your  young  bud  of  promise  lies  cold  and  alone. 


Mourn,  that  no  longer  will  break  on  your  eat- 
That  soft  silver  tone  so  enchanting  and  clear, 
"  My  father,  my  mother,"  which  came  o'er  the  soul, 
Like  the  songs  of  the  spheres  as  in  sweetness  they  roll. 

Ah  !  yes,  you  may  mourn,  for  no  longer  he'll  greet 
Those  parents  he  loved  with  his  light  buoyant  feet, 
That  young  bounding  heart  which  illumined  his  face, 
Lies  chilled  by  the  fervor  of  death's  cold  embrace. 

When  the  grate  is  replenished  and  the  lights  burning  clear, 
When  the  fierce  winds  of  winter  howl  dismal  and  drear, 
When  the  billows  of  ocean,  as  they  break  o'er  the  deep, 
Chill  the  heart  of  the  mourner,  ay,  then  you  may  weep, 

For  the  tempests  which  thunder  in  wrath  through  the  sky, 
But  increase  the  warm  tears  as  they  gush  from  your  eye  ; 
For  remembrance  will  linger  where  the  green  willows  wave, 
And  weep  as  the  storm  murmurs  sad  o'er  his  grave. 

But  here  you  must  stop,  and  remember  'tis  o'er — 
The  child  whom  you  worshipped  will  suffer  no  more  : 
From  earth  he's  escaped,  like  a  bird  from  his  snare, 
And  lit  on  those  groves  ever  blooming  and  fair. 

Oh,  look  as  the  tears  of  affection  they  roll, 
As  the  dark  waves  of  anguish  pass  over  the  soul — 
Look  away  to  yon  heaven  where  the  lovely  all  meet, 
The  "  stainless  with  stainless,  the  sweet  with  the  sweet," 

In  the  regions  of  bliss  behold  now  your  boy, 

Your  young  pledge  of  love,  your  pride  and  your  joy  ; 

The  angel  of  mercy  has  borne  him  on  high, 

Where  he  warbles  with  seraphs  the  songs  of  the  sky. 


272 


THE    SAVIOUR'S   VOICE. 


I  SAW  him  walking  on  the  wave, 

On  billows  high  which  lashed  the  shore, 

Arrayed  with  power  divine  to  save, 
When  tempests  wild  tumultuous  roar. 

He  lifts  his  voice  above  the  storm 

That  madly  sweeps  o'er  sea  and  sky  j 

In  tones  more  sweet  than  seraph's  form, 
He  bids  the  winds  in  silence  die. 

The  waves  are  stilled  in  quiet  rest, 
A  placid  smile  plays  o'er  the  deep ; 

The  storm-rocked  ocean's  heaving  breast, 
Like  a  hushed  infant  sinks  to  sleep. 

The  dark,  wild  clouds  all  straight  retire, 
The  roaring  winds  are  heard  no  more  j 

The  glorious  sun,  bright  orb  of  fire, 
Around  his  dazzling  beauties  pour. 

The  bow  of  promise  spans  the  world, 
Where  all  in  deep  despondence  lay ; 

It  brilliance  o'er  the  earth  unfurled, 
Sheds  forth  a  pure  and  hallowed  ray. 

With  faith  and  hope  fixed  on  his  arm, 
Whose  voice  can  still  the  tempest's  power, 

Man  stands  secure  from  every  harm, 
And  smiles  to  meet  his  final  hour. 


273 


'WHAT   THINK   YE   OF   CHRIST! 


WRITTEN   AFTER   A   COMMUNI«N   SEASON. 


CAN  you  tell  me  what  of  One 

Who  left  the  bright  abode  on  high, 

Who  on  the  mountain's  top  alone, 
Wept  over  sinners  doomed  to  die  ? 

Can  you  tell  me  what  his  name, 

Who  he  isj  and  whence  he  came  ? 

Can  you  tell  me  why  he  stooped 

To  visit  mortals  here  below, 
Why  his  lovely  head  he  drooped, 

Where  Cearon's  waters  murmur  low  ? 
Why  in  Gethsemane's  lone  vale, 
Was  heard  afar  his  dying  wail  ? 

Say,  what  think  you  of  that  love 

Which  naught  could  conquer  or  subdue, 

Love  which  first  in  heaven  above, 
Spoke  a  language  bold  and  true. 

Hear  a  Saviour  deified, 

"  Father,  spare  them,  I  have  died." 

When  the  heart  is  tempest  toss'd, 
When  each  earthly  scene  looks  dim, 

When  e'en  the  anchor  hope  seems  lost, 
Do  you  love  to  think  of  Him  ? 

Do  you  love  in  such  an  hour 

To  plead  his  promise  and  his  power? 


274-  WHAT   THINK   TE   OF   CHRIST. 

How  to  you  does  he  appear, 

Is  he  lovely,  all  divine  ? 
Does  his  grace  your  spirits  cheer 

As  his  glories  round  you  shine  ? 
Do  you  long  to  fly  away, 
And  reign  with  him  in  endless  day  ? 

Then  around — if  thus  your  souls 
Pant  for  God — the  table  come, 

Gather  where  salvation  rolls, 
Lo  !  its  waters  waft  you  home, 

Waft  you  to  the  shores  of  bliss, 

To  the  far  off  land  of  peace. 

Lo  !  the  banner  is  unfurl'd  I 
Jesus  meets  his  people  here  ; 

Lo  !  the  Saviour  of  the  world 
Calls  his  weeping  children  near. 

Raise  your  suppliant  voices  high, 

Pleas'd  he  listens  to  your  cry. 

Here,  the  feast  for  you  is  spread, 
Here  his  blood  like  water  flows, 

Come  and  taste  the  living  bread, 

Come  where  heavenly  pasture  grows. 

Come  embrace  your  dying  Lord, 

Come  and  worship  round  his  board. 


275 


PARTING. 


WHEN  on  the  trembling  lip  is  breathed 

The  last  farewell ;  and  anguish  there 
Around  the  soul  her  spell  has  wreathed, 

And  left  the  mind  to  dark  despair — 
How  all  the  earth  fades  on  the  sight, 

And  desolation's  strong  control 
Shrouds  all  created  things  in  night, 

And  wraps  its  pall  around  the  soul  ! 

Nature  's  a  blank,  with  all  her  charms, 

The  sun  emits  no  cheering  ray ; 
The  world,  were  it  within  our  arms, 

Could  not  convert  our  night  to  day  ; 
Could  not  restore  the  pleasing  smile, 

Could  not  bring  back  the  look  of  love, 
Could  not  the  tedious  hours  beguile, 

And  make  this  world  like  that  above. 

Could  not  within  our  echoing  halls 

Bring  back  the  bird-like  voice  again, 
Nor  to  the  lute's  unuttered  calls, 

Restore  its  simple,  touching  strain. 
No  joy  the  tortured  bosom  feels, 

Each  living  thing  renews  its  wo  ; 
In  every  breath  remembrance  steals 

The  past  returns  where'er  we  go. 

Oh,  eould  the  soul  one  ray  of  hope 
To  meet  indulge  for  one  brief  hour, 


576  A  THUNDZB   STOEM. 

Creation's  verge,  its  farthest  slope, 
To  it  would  prove  a  fairy  bower. 

'Tis  the  blest  hope  which  heaven  bestowe, 
That  forms  a  halo  'round  this  earth ; 

And  the  pure  light  that  from  it  flows, 
Illumes  the  spirit  from  its  birth. 

A  hope  which  gives  religion  power, 

Exerts  o'er  man  a  magic  sway, 
Gilds  with  its  beams  life's  darkest  hour, 

And  points  to  an  unclouded  day. 
Where  all  the  loved  of  earth  shdl  meet, 

And  as  eternal  ages  roll — 
"  We  part  no  more" — in  accents  sweet, 

Prove  the  response  of  every  soul. 


A  THUNDER   STORM. 


'TwAS  midnight,  and  the  thunder's  crash 

Broke  loudly  on  my  ear  ; 
Then  came  the  light'ning's  vivid  flash, 

Proclaiming  God  was  near. 

Fitful  they  played  around  my  head, 
Bright  were  their  arrowy  forms  ; 

While  far  and  near,  with  noiseless  tread, 
Wandered  the  God  of  storms. 

Revolving  clouds  rolled  dark  and  high, 

And  ever  and  anon, 
The  light'ning's  flash,  and  thunder's  crash. 

Came  quick,  and  then  were  gone. 


STANZAS.  277 

Hushed  for  a  moment  was  the  strife 

Of  elemental  war ; 
E'en  nature's  pulse  seemed  'reft  of  life, 

When  sudden  from  afar 

Was  heard  the  roar  of  warring  winds, 

Borne  by  the  clouds  along  ; 
The  rain  fell  fast  from  thousand  springs, 

And  mingled  in  the  song. 


One  wild  uproar,  one  constant  flash, 

Illumed  the  troubled  sky  ; 
The  wind,  the  rain,  the  thunder's  crash, 

Raised  the  grand  pean  high. 

Lord  !  what  an  emblem  of  that  day, 
For  which  all  days  were  made  ; 

When  all  that 's  born  on  earth  must  stand 
Before  thy  throne  arrayed. 


STANZAS, 

TO  MRS.  E.  S.,  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HER  CHILD. 


SAY,  has  that  lovely  cherub  fled, 

On  whom  so  late  you  smiled  ? 
And  have  you  numbered  with  the  dead, 

Your  youngest,  sweetest  child  ? 
They  tell  me  how  from  day  to  day 

He  bowed  his  beauteous  head, 
'Till  his  young  spirit  soared  away 

Among  the  happy  dead. 


278  STANZAS. 

They  tell  me  that  his  bright  blue  eyes 

Now  smile  on  you  no  more  ; 
They  tell  me  how  his  mother  cries 

And  weeps  for  him  she  bore. 
My  dear  Elizabeth,  restrain 

Your  fast,  your  flowing  tears ; 
Remember,  you  can  ne'er  again 

Bring  back  his  baby  years. 

Remember,  he  was  not  your  own, 

But  lent  a  while  to  lore ; 
Your  bird  of  song  to  heaven  has  flown, 

To  welcome  you  above. 
Then  think  not  of  his  opening  charms 

As  on  your  breast  he  lay ; 
When  softly  slumbering  on  your  arms, 

You  gazed  the  hours  away, 

And  think  not  of  his  forehead  fair, 

Nor  of  his  dimpled  chin  ; 
Gaze  not  upon  that  lock  of  hair, 

Sole  relic  left  of  him. 
Oh,  think  not  of  those  happy  hours, 

When  your  sweet  babies  played 
Beneath  the  trees  among  the  flowers, 

And  gambolled  in  the  shade. 

Dwell  not  upon  his  infant  glee, 

Twill  but  increase  your  grief; 
The  strongest  powers  of  memory 

Can  yield  you  no  relief. 
But  look,  dear  friend,  to  yon  bright  sky 

Where  storms  and  tempests  cease, 
Where  tears  no  more  shall  dim  the  eye, 

And  all  the  realm  is  peace. 


279 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN  AT  DE.  P.    .    •  .'s,  AT  GREEN  PORT,  L.  I.,  BY  THE  AUTHOR, 

THE   FIRST   TIME    SHE  WAS   THERE  AFTER   THE   DEATH  OF 

HIS  DAUGHTER. 


WITHIN  this  hospitable  dome, 

This  seat  of  earthly  bliss, 
From  place  to  place,  as  'round  I  roam, 

One  little  form  I  miss  ; 
Whose  placid  looks  and  cheerful  smile, 

Illumined  every  scene  ; 
Did  every  lingering  hour  beguile, 

Sweet  beauteous  Prosaline. 

With  bird-like  voice,  and  blooming  face, 

And  features  mild  and  fair, 
Moving  around  with  matchless  grace, 

And  steps  as  light  as  air. 
From  whose  bright  eye  there  stole  a  beam, 

As  soft,  as  sweet,  as  mild, 
As  moonlight  on  some  silver  stream 

'Mid  forests  deep  and  wild — 

Whose  wavy  hair  in  ringlets  hung, 

Around  her  neck  of  snow  ; 
And  o'er  her  face  such  sweetness  flung, 

As  earth  could  seldom  show. 
Ah,  where  is  now  that  seraph  form, 

And  that  sweet  tuneful  voice, 
Which  made  the  coldest  bosom  warm, 

Made  every  heart  rejoice  ? 


280 


Alas  !  I  read  the  reason  why 

In  her  dear  parent's  face, 
Why  I  cannot  her  form  descry, 

Nor  her  bright  image  trace. 
Insatiate  death,  that  cruel  foe, 

Has  sized  the  victim  fair  ; 
And  laid  the  little  cherub  low, 

The  child  of  so  much  care. 

Full  well  he  knew  how  sweet  the  flower, 

And  came  with  ruthless  sway ; 
With  his  keen  scythe,  and  in  an  hour, 

Cut  the  young  bud  away. 
That  cherished  bud  of  roseate  hue, 

Just  bursting  from  the  shrine  ; 
He  plucked,  while  yet  the  morning  dew 

Sparkled  upon  the  vine. 

But  now  he  's  done — his  work  is  done— 

His  barrier  is  the  tomb  ; 
But  this  sweet  flower,  'neath  heaven's  bright  sun, 

Eternally  shall  bloom. 
Where  never  withering  wreaths  entwine 

'Mid  fields  of  living  green ; 
There  may  I  see  thy  form  divine, 

Sweet,  beauteous  Prosaline. 


281 


STANZAS, 

WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  HENRY  E.  THOMPSON,  ELDEST  SON  OF 
BENJAMIN  F.  THOMPSON,  ESQ.,  OF  HEMPSTEAD,  L.  I. 


DELUSIVE  hope  !  enchanter  of  the  soul, 

How  it  deceives  with  visions  bright  and  fair ; 
Visions,  which  vanish  as  the  moments  roll, 

False  as  the  wind,  and  baseless  as  the  air. 
Yet  such  is  man,  fixed  is  his  steady  eye, 

On  joys  as  evanescent  as  they're  vain ; 
Fleeting  as  rainbows  painted  on  the  sky, 

Transient  as  evening  in  her  gilded  train. 

The  hues  of  beauty  mingle  as  the  light 

Shows  her  soft  drapery  o'er  the  earth  and  sea  ; 
Brightens,  as  Sol  pursues  his  upward  flight, 

And  spreads  at  eve  his  brilliance  o'er  the  lea. 
Hope  sits  enthron'd  on  the  retiring  cloud, 

With  gorgeous  hues  she  paints  the  dreamy  west 
Man  looks  for  light,  but  oh,  the  darken'd  shroud, 

That  wraps  at  morn  its  pall  around  his  breast. 

Thus  human  joys  perish  within  our  grasp, 

We  hug  the  phantoms,  but  we  find  them  air  ; 
They  pierce  our  bosoms  as  we  fondly  clasp 

Their  airy  forms,  and  fill  us  with  despair. 
Thus  die  the  lovely,  thus  the  fairest  flower 

That  opes  its  petals  to  the  rising  day ; 
Withers  and  fades,  nor  all  the  earthly  power 

Can  bring  its  bloom,  or  wrest  its  longer  stay. 


282 


The  living  die  when  cherish'd  ones  depart, 

'Tie  they  who  feel  the  sting  as  death  draws  near  ; 
The  living  weep  when  hope  forsakes  the  heart, 

And  lays  its  broken  promise  on  the  bier. 
'Tis  not  in  circles  where  the  giddy  meet, 

'Tis  not  where  revelry  and  banquet  yield 
Their  feverish  joys  ;  not  these  the  sorrowing  greet — 

The  gay  of  heart,  where  every  pulse  is  steeled. 

No — though  they  once  within  the  lighted  dome 

Pursued  the  star  that  with  its  cheering  beams 
Illumed  their  path,  its  shadows  round  them  come, 

And  sad  reality  awakes  from  dreams. 
A  withering  pall  o'er  every  joy  is  spread, 

The  heart 's  a  desert  where  no  spring  is  found  ; 
Visions  of  darkess  flit  with  noiseless  tread, 

And  dance  in  solemn  mockery  all  around. 

Henry,  on  thy  young  brow  hope's  fairy  hand 

Pencili'd  the  promise  of  unclouded  days  ; 
Oh,  how  deceptive  was  her  magic  wand 

Which  lit  the  future,  then  obscured  its  rays. 
Bright  was  thy  morn,  discretion  led  the  way, 

Strewing  thy  path  with  sweetest  flowers  of  earth  ; 
No  rankling  thoughts  the  guilty  past  portray, 

Though  oft  in  scenes  of  vanity  and  mirth. 

Thine  was  the  form,  and  thine  the  active  mind, 

The  winning  face,  the  pure  confiding  heart, 
In  which  each  noble  virtue  was  enshrin'd, 

Which  drew  from  death  the  keen  envenom'd  dart. 
From  thy  dark  eye  impassion'd  beauty  stole 

Like  sunlight  on  the  deep,  when  from  afar 
The  god  of  day  lit  up  each  distant  pole, 

And  in  his  splendor  faded  every  star. 


HEMPSTEAD   HARBOR.  253 

No  more  when  evening  spreads  her  silvery  light, 

Wilt  thou  return  thy  parents'  hearts  to  bliss  ; 
Brothers  and  sisters,  through  the  stilly  night, 

No  more  will  pant  to  view  thy  loveliness. 
Thou'rt  dead,  sweet  youth — draped  are  the  echoing  halls 

Where  music  gave  the  soul-subduing  lay  ; 
Like  morning  dew  the  silent  footstep  falls, 

And  friendship  mourns  the  loved  one  far  away. 


HEMPSTEAD   HARBOR. 


JWRITTEN   WHILE    AT   THE   RESIDENCE   OF   JOSEPH   M.    MOULTO*,   ISQ. 


spot !  glory  of  all  the  earth, 

Bright  miniature  of  Eden's  blissful  bowers  ; 
Beauteous,  as  when  in  thy  primitive  birth, 

Thou  stood'sl  array 'd  in  shrubs  and  blooming  flowers. 
Before  the  blight  of  sin  faded  thy  bloom, 

Unbounded  nature  knew  no  fairer  spot ; 
And  when  creation  felt  her  withering  doom, 

Amid  her  works  thou  surely  wert  forgot. 

Thy  hills  and  streams,  and  each  pelucid  popl, 

Reflecting  soft  the  silvery  orbs  of  even  ; 
Thy  purling  brooks  and  limpid  waters  cool, 

Sweetly  resemble  faith's  bright  views  of  heaven. 
Hill  after  hill  meets  the  enraptur'd  eye, 

In  one  unbroken,  undulating  reef; 
Stretching  along  beneath  the  blue-arch'd  sky, 

'Till  all  appear  in  striking,  bold  relief ! 


284  HJEMPSTEAD   HARBOR. 

Embower'd  beneath  the  sheltering  cliffs  afar, 

The  neat  white  cots  are  in  the  distance  seen, 
Lit  up  at  evening  like  some  lovely  star, 

Throwing  its  radience  on  the  fairy  scene. 
Amid  the  groves,  beneath  the  verdant  boughs, 

Waving  in  beauty  'mid  the  gusty  air  ; 
The  lover  breaths  at  eve  his  tender  vows, 

And  happier  grows  amid  a  scene  so  fair. 

The  autumnal  spirit  o'er  the  wavy  wood, 

Spreads  her  soft  mantle,  bright  with  nature's  dye  : 
Beauty,  delighted,  lingers  on  the  flood, 

And  lends  enchantment  to  the  admiring  eye. 
Majestic,  grand,  sublime  at  morning's  hour, 

When  o'er  the  landscape,  gemm'd  with  pearly  dew  : 
The  sun  appears,  and  in  a  golden  shower, 

Shows  his  rich  beams  upon  the  pleasing  view. 

From  Moulton's  heights,  how  beautiful  the  scene, 

Varied  and  bold,  magnificent  arid  grand  ; 
Lakes,  vales  and  streams,  mingle  the  hills  between, 

And  the  blue  Sound  laving  the  solid  land. 
I  stand  delighted  'mid  the  tangled  wood, 

I  gaze  enraptur'd  from  his  lofty  dome ; 
I  look  around,  and  wish  my  pencil  could 

Portay  the  beauties  of  his  pleasant  home. 

But  language  fails — the  eye  of  man  must  see, 

See  for  himself — no  pen  can  e'er  describe, 
Nor  poet  tell,  the  bold  sublimity 

That  meets  the  view  surveyed  from  either  side. 
Nor  least,  at  twilight  bursts  the  thrilling  view, 

When  the  pale  moon  upon  the  babbling  stream 
Throws  her  mild  light,  and  stars  with  silvery  hue, 

Mirror  their  beauty  as  they  sweetly  beam. 

Oh,  I  could  gaze  upon  this  heavenly  spot, 
And  feast  my  soul  upon  its  magic  charms ; 


TO   MISS   M.    S.    K. 

Till  time  itself,  amid  the  scene  forgot, 
Should  steal  like  friendship  from  my  folded  arms. 

Not  only  trees,  and  shrubs,  and  wooded  hill, 
Lakes,  ponds — the  bay,  and  the  blue  rippling  sound 

Attracts  and  please,  but  manners  soft  distill, 
And  show  a  genial  influence  all  around. 

M — le  and  C.,  to  thee  my  thanks  are  due, 

And  H — t,  crowned  with  honor  and  with  years ; 
Fond  recollections  shall  the  past  renew, 

And  steep  its  memory  in  delicious  tears. 
Farewell,  bright  groves  and  every  winding  stream, 

I  leave  you  now  for  purer  joys  at  home  ; 
Where  o'er  my  vision,  like  a  fairy  dream, 

Your  sweet  remembrance  shall  in  fancy  come. 


TO    MISS    M.    S.   K. 


OFTEN  your  image  steals  o'er  me 

Since  you  have  left  your  own  sweet  home 
And  now  shall  wake  my  minstrelsy, 

While  in  a  distant  land  you  roam. 

'Twas  hard  to  rend  yourself  away, 

Although  your  guiding  star  was  bright ; 

'Twas  hard  from  her  you  loved  to  stray, 
And  turn  her  sunny  day  to  night. 

How  oft  I've  thought,  who  now  will  cheer 
That  mother  when  her  Julia  's  gone  1 

At  evening's  hour,  what  kindred  dear 
Will  hear  her  sigh  when  all  alone  ? 


TO   MISS   II.    S.    K. 

When  all  alone  she  trims  her  fire, 
As  winter  winds  howl  sad  and  drear 

Their  anthems  on  the  wild  wood  lyre, 
Ah,  who  will  view  the  bitter  tear 

Steal  down  her  cheek,  as  of  the  loved 
Her  spirit  dreams,  now  far  away ; 

Children,  who  oft  her  kindness  proved, 
Who  formed  her  heaven,  who  lit  her  day  ? 

How  oft  around  her  vine-clad  cot, 

Like  a  bright  seraph  have  you  strayed  ; 

We  look,  but  ah,  we  see  you  not, 
The  lovely  girl,  the  dark-eyed  maid. 

No  longer  music's  melting  strain 
Comes  stealing  o'er  the  list'ning  ear ; 

Thrilling  through  every  circling  vein 
In  notes  melodious,  soft  and  clear. 

Thy  brother,  too,  whose  winning  smile 

Illumined  oft  the  social  bower, 
No  more  the  hours  his  flute  beguile, 

No  more  we  feel  its  witching  power. 

In  southern  climes  this  cherished  gem 
Inhales  the  soft  enlivening  breeze  ; 

Beholds  fair  nature's  diadem 

Impearled  on  spangled  groves  and  trees, 

Oft  as  he  rambles  o'er  the  lawn, 

Culling  the  wild  flowers  wet  with  dew, 

At  evening's  hour,  or  early  morn, 

His  thoughts  fly  quick  to  home  and  you. 

Who  with  him  oft  delighted  shared 
In  chilhood's  morn  the  envied  kiss ; 


TO  MISS   M.    S.    K.  287 

To  that  loved  mother,  now  debarred, 
The  fullness  of  her  earthly  bliss. 

Awake,  my  lyre  !  a  nobler  theme 

Comes  rushing  o'er  my  spirits  now  : 
Awake  !  it  is  no  feverish  dream 

Inspires  me  with  its  transient  glow  ! 

On  high,  above  this  dusky  sphere, 

Enthroned,  I  see  among  the  blest, 
One  who,  when  here,  dried  every  tear, 

And  soothed  each  anxious  care  to  rest. 

Your  sainted  father,  lo  !  he  stands 
Arrayed  in  robes  of  dazzling  light, 
A  golden  harp  within  his  hands, 
Waiting  your  spirit's  upward  flight. 

Another  beauteous  form  I  see, 

The  young-eyed  cherub  is  her  guide  ; 
It  is  Louisa  beckoning  thee 

To  purer  pleasures  by  her  side. 

Again  my  muse  with  pinions  spread, 

Flies  quickly  o'er  time's  hasty  round, 
Mingles  among  the  rising  dead, 

And  lists  the  trumpet's  solemn  sound  ! 

The  sunny  south,  the  distant  west, 

The  chilling  north,  the  eastern  world, 
Are  all  convened  ;  the  good,  the  blest, 

'Neath  heaven's  bright  banner's  wide  unfurled. 

Upon  a  throne  of  liquid  light, 

Which  from  its  splendors  casts  no  shade, 
Encircled  with  a  halo  bright, 

The  Prince  of  glory  stands  arrayed. 


888  THE    DEPARTURE. 

Your  father,  mother,  sister  dear, 
I  see  amid  that  brilliant  band, 

You,  with  your  brother  too,  appear 
And  hail  with  joy  the  "  better  land." 

List !  on  the  ear  from  opening  skies 
Impassioned  strains  of  music  roll ; 

A  choral  band  of  symphonies 

Awake  new  pleasures  in  my  soul. 

How  soft  the  strain  at  this  lone  hour, 
When  midnight  tolls  her  solemn  knell, 

And  with  a  strange  mysterious  power 
Comes  o'er  my  spirit — fare  thee  well. 


THE   DEPARTURE. 


HE'S  gone,  'tis  o'er,  the  last  farewell  is  breathed, 
And  love's  warm  kiss  the  trembling  lip  has  wreathed. 
The  spell  is  broken,  which  for  years  has  wound 
Its  magic  influence  o'er  the  hearts  it  bound. 
Fled  sunny  days  and  evening's  peaceful  hour, 
When  seated  in  the  dear  domestic  bower  ; 
He  read  aloud,  until  in  bold  relief,     • 
Before  our  eyes  appeared  each  object  brief. 
'Till  the  pure  flame  which  glowed  on  every  page, 
Found  a  response  in  childhood,  youth,  and  age. 
Our  bosoms  glowing,  as  enwrapt  inspired 
We  wept,  and  smiled,  we  wandered  and  admired. 
His  pencil,  too,  with  what  delight  we  viewed 
Its  rapid  progress,  as  each  touch  renewed 
The  kindling  up  of  genius  in  his  soul, 
' 


THE   D  EPARTTTHE.  289 

Which  naught  had  power  to  conquer  or  control. 
The  verdant  landscape  with  each  sylvan  scene, 
The  towering  castle  on  the  mountain  green; 
The  limpid  pool,  the  broad  majectic  sea, 
The  bright  cascades  which  tumbled  o'er  the  lea. 
All  these,  with  faces  of  the  loved  and  dear 
So  often  sketched — and  then  the  smile  sincere 
As  parents  praised,  as  all  fond  parents  do, 
When  nature  prompts  what  genius  would  pursue. 

Oh,  blessed  scenes,  when  all  around  was  bright, 
And  morn  renewed  the  pleasures  of  the  night; — 
When  gathered  round  the  sparkling  grate  we  read 
The  great  achievments  of  the  sleeping  dead. 

Thanks  to  thy  name,  immortal  Homer,  thou 

Sole  king  of  poets,  with  the  laurelled  brow  ; 

Thine  was  the  power  to  paint  the  soul-lit  eye 

Of  spartan  beauty  and  each  grace  descry. 

Picture  the  living  characters  of  men, 

The  shield,  the  helmet,  and  the  diadem. 

The  Olympian  mount,  where  the  great  thunderer  Jove, 

And  Juno  dwelt,  themselves  the  sport  of  love. 

When  night  dews  fell  upon  the  landscape,  oft 

He  read  the  Illiad,  'till  his  bosom  soft 

Heaved  with  the  impulse  which  each  figure  gave 

Of  heathen  gods,  the  beautiful  and  brave, 

Of  Virgil,  too,  whose  fascinating  verse 

Of  Trojan  wars,  the  senses  all  immerse  ; 

As  forth  through  coming  time  the  spirit  goes, 

When  unborn  nations,  whom  the  world  compose, 

Shall  read  astonished  of  the  present  time, 

As  we  of  Greece,  of  Rome,  or  Persian  clime. 

Delightful  hours,  when  on  the  sacred  page, 

We  trace  the  Saviour,  prophet,  priest  and  sage, 

The  Jewish  nation,  and  from  them  on  earth, 

All  the  renowned  of  valor  or  of  birth. 

z 


290  THE    BAPTISM. 

For  ever  fled,  for  ever  past  the  hours, 
When  from  the  study,  'mid  the  blooming  flowers, 
He  culled  the  fairest  with  its  gaudy  wing, 
And  to  the  loved  gave  the  first  flower  of  spring. 
Oh,  world  deal  gently  with  thy  tender  charge, 
On  thy  rough  tide  is  launched  his  fragile  barge  ; 
Let  prosperous  winds  fill  every  fluttering  sail 
As  forth  he  rides  before  the  enchanting  gale. 
Should  all  prove  fair,  and  not  a  ripple  move 
The  sunlit  stream  o'er  which  he's  called  to  rove, 
Let  him  prepare  for  fortune's  changing  tide, 
For  often  whirlpools  treacherous  billows  hide. 
On  thy  broad  bosom,  world,  oh,  may  he  find 
Deep  veins  of  knowledge,  where  his  ardent  mind 
Shall  rich  luxuriate  in  the  golden  store 
Of  classic  beauty,  and  of  hidden  lore. 
Guided  by  wisdom  to  those  golden  mines, 
Which  lead  to  honor  and  the  mind  refines  ; 
Praising  his  soul  above  each  meaner  scene, 
The  world  made  better,  that  on  earth  he  'a  been. 


THE   BAPTISM. 


THE  day  was  cold  and  chill, 
The  earth  in  snow  was  drest, 

Which  glittered  on  each  rising  hill, 
Like  gems  on  beauty's  breast. 

The  roaring  winds  were  hushed, 
The  sun  in  splendors  bright, 

Poured  its  rich  beams  upon  the  floods, 
And  filled  the  world  with  light. 


THE    BAPTISM.  291 

When  from  his  peaceful  home, 

Toward  a  cottage  fair, 
A  man  of  God  urged  on  his  way, 

And  soon  was  welcomed  there. 

A  gentle  female  form 

Received  him  at  the  door, 
And  in  a  soft  and  silver  tone, 

His  presence  did  implore. 

Toward  a  little  room 

She  quickly  led  the  way,' 
Where  on  a  sick  and  dying  bed, 

A  widowed  mother  lay. 

Her  racking  pains  had  fled, 

Her  face  with  glory  shone, 
A  holy  joy  which  seemed  to  say, 

Thy  will,  oh,  God  !  be  done. 

There  the  baptismal  font, 

The  Bible  lay  there  too, 
And  the  rapt  seraph  bowed  his  head 

The  solemn  scene  to  view. 

Two  lovely  children  clung 

Close  by  their  nurse's  side, 
One,  a  sweet  cherub,  smiling  hung, 

While  her  young  brother  cried. 

Softly,  the  man  of  God 

Whispered  the  dying  one, 
"  Yes,  I  have  strength,"  she  faintly  said, 

"  Now  let  the  rite  be  done." 

Upon  her  sunken  cheek 
There  came  a  roseate  hue, 


292  THE   BAPTISM. 

As  on  her  babes  she  turned  her  eyes, 
Her  eyes  of  heavenly  blue. 

"  Into  my  Father's  hands 
My  children  I  commend  ; 

Better  than  life  I've  loved  them  here, 
And  loved  them  to  the  end." 

She  called  them  to  her  bed, 
Their  infant  forms  were  bent ; 

Her  dark  eyes  closed,  we  knelt  in  prayer, 
Her  soul  on  God  intent. 

Upon  her  little  son 

Her  beauteous  hand  did  rest, 

The  other  clasped  the  roundj  white  arm, 
Which  lay  across  her  breast. 

Then  hand  in  hand  they  came, 
The  sacred  rite  was  done. 

Most  touching  was  the  heavenly  scene, 
As  she  embraced  her  son. 

"  Dear  mother,"  asked  her  child, 
"  Are  now  our  hearts  quite  clean  ?" 

"  God  cleanses  them,  my  dear,"  she  said, 
"  Now  you  must  lean  on  him." 

"  Mother,  I'm  glad,"  he  said, 
"  He'll  be  your  father,  too, 

And  sisters,  when  we  both  are  good, 
And  that  will  comfort  you." 

A  sweet  celestial  smile 
Illumined  her  angel  face, 

And  calm  as  infancy's  soft  dream, 
She  sunk  in  death's  embrace. 


HTTMAK  LIFI.  29S 

^  here  was  within  that  room 
A  silence  long  and  deep, 
As  that  young  mother  closed  her  eyes 
»      In  their  cold  marble  sleep. 


HUMAN   LIFE. 


I  STOOD  upon  a  towering  rock, 

Amid  time's  ocean  wide ; 
I  saw  the  smooth  sea  smiling  mock 
The  heaving  billow's  maddening  lock, 
And  felt  the  elemental  shock 

Of  winds  and  surging  tide. 

Alternate  changes  rolle,d  before — 

At  once  the  sea  was  bright ; 
And  then  again  its  angry  roar 
In  awful  grandeur  swept  the  shore, 
And  shook  the  rocky  base  which  bore 

Me  on  its  dizzy  height. 

And  thus,  I  thought,  is  human  life  ; 

At  once  the  flatterer  creeps 
And  winds  around  his  silken  spell, 
Or  bitter  imprecations  swell, 
Furious  and  loud,  a  dying  knell 

To  innocence'  soft  sleep. 

Alike  the  treacherous  winds  that  blow 

And  vary  every  hour  ; 
Thus  man's  short  life  is  fraught  with  wo, 


294  HUMAN  LIFE. 

'Mid  smiles  and  tears  I  see  him  go, 
Aspiring  high  or  sinking  low, 
Exerting  every  power. 

At  times  the  smooth  sea's  quiet  roll, 

Invites  his  steps  along ; 
Ten  thousand  beauties  charm  his  soul, 
His  passions  rage  without  control — 
Heedless  he  quaffs  the  poisonous  bowl, 

Lured  by  the  syren's  song. 

While  mirrored  in  the  flowing  deep, 

Ten  tnousand  beauties  rise 
In  brilliant  hues,  like  beacons  sweep, 
Warning  the  soul  of  man  to  keep 
Aloof  from  pleasure's  dangerous  sleep, 
Where  peace  and  virtue  dies. 

But  by  their  brighness  lured  away, 

All  reckless  of  bis  doom, 
He  rushes  onward — nought  can  stay, 
Not  e'en  the  clouds  which  shroud  his  way, 
So  artfully  the  phantoms  slay 

Their  tenants  of  the  tomb. 

His  fancied  pleasures,  bubbles  fair, 

That  break  as  he  pursues — 
He  grasps  them,  and  they  flee  like  air, 
And  fill  his  soul  with  wild  despair, 
And  rack  his  breast  with  anxious  care  ; 
Still  he  the  chase  renews. 

Although  around  on  every  side 

Are  fragments  of  his  hope, 

Before  him  still  his  mirror  wide 

Allures  his  steps  along  the  tide, 

A  fleeting  phantom  is  his  guide, 

And  ruin  is  her  scope. 


295 

•'• 


Like  to  a  mother's  warning  voice, 

His  own  experience  tries 
To  arrest  his  steps — but  vain  the  joys 
That  leaves  no  sting — which  never  cloys 
Thai  heavenly  peace  which  ever  buoys 

The  virtuous  to  the  skies. 

From  ruin  he  would  fain  absolve — 
His  steps  he  would  reclaim  ; 

He  listens,  and  would  fain  resolve  ; 

A  thousand  times  his  mind  revolves, 

"  A  thousand  times  he  re-resolves, 
And  then  he  dies  the  same." 


STANZAS   TO 


WHEN  the  sweet  and  lovely  die, 

When  parents'  hearts  are  riven, 
Friendship's  off'ring  is  a  sigh 

Which  wings  its  way  to  heaven. 
And  through  the  lovely  twilight  hour, 

When  hush'd  and  still  the  scene, 
Fancy  sways  her  magic  pow'r, 

And  pictures  what  has  been. 

Look  back  on  days  and  hours  of  bliss, 
When  in  their  infant's  earliest  kiss, 

These  parents  seal'd  their  love  ; 
When  cradled  on  her  mother's  breast, 
So  sweetly  there  she  sunk  to  rest, 


296 


That  angel's  round  her  pillow  prcst, 
And  watch'd  her  from  above. 

They  saw  she  was  too  pure  for  earth, 
And  mark'd  her  as  their  prize  ; 

'Mid  beauty's  bloom  and  infant  mirth, 
They  bore  her  to  the  skies. 

Through  the  lone  hall 
No  footsteps  fall — 

No  greetings  meet  the  ear — 
No  cherub  voice 
The  hearts  rejoice, 

Of  parents  once  so  dear. 
Upon  her  little  breast, 
Her  tiny  hands  they  rest, 

Which  ne'er  were  still  before  ; 
Her  mother's  plaited  hair, 
Across  her  forehead  fair, 

She'll  part  no  more. 
How  calm  and  still  her  sleep  I 

Like  infancy's  soft  dream, 
A  holy  slumber,  long  and  deep, 

On  eternity's  cold  stream. 

Sweet  cherub  I  didst  thou  lose  thy  way — 
Could  nought  below  induce  thy  stay — 

Was  earth  so  bleak  and  wild  ? 
So  fill'd  with  wo,  so  fraught  with  pain, 
That  thou  so  soon  should'st  seek  again 

Thy  heav'n,  my  child  ? 
Adown  life's  silver  tide, 
How  quickly  thou  didst  glide, 

A  seraph  bright  i 
With  sails  all  trimm'd  and  furl'd, 
Through  this  low  world, 

How  swift  thy  flight. 
Thy  hasty  voyage  is  o'er, 


STANZAS.  297 


Thy  brightly  beaming  eye, 
Will  upward  cast  its  glance  no  more 

To  meet  thy  parent's  sigh. 
The  last  sweet  kiss  is  given, 

The  last  lov'd  word  is  spoke, 
Flown  to  thy  native  heaven, 

While  their  fond  hearts  are  broke. 

Alas  !  alas !  how  deep 

Is  their  lov'd  infant's  sleep  ; 

Time  scarce  can  number, 

In  her  last  slumber, 

The  years  before  their  eyes  shall  meet, 

With  joys  divine,  each  other  greet 

Where  spring  immortal  blooms, 

^Yond  earth's  confining  tombs, 

In  worlds  of  bliss  above, 

Amid  bright  bo-w'rs  of  love, 

When  time  can  ne~"er  again  destroy 

Their  first  born  pledge  of  hope  and  joy. 


STANZAS, 


ON    VIEWING   A   BEAUTIFUL    LAWN,    ONCE    A 


FLOWER   GARDEN. 


ALL  hail !  thou  lovely  spot  of  earth, 
How  beautiful  and  green  ; 

Thou  ever  from  thy  birth 
With  fond  delight  wert  seen. 


Through  many  changes  thou  hast  pass'd, 
And  known  the  blightning  pow'r, 

Oft  times  sharp  scythe,  and  felt  the  blast 
That  withers  in  an  hour. 

Once  thou  wert  fill'd  with  choicest  flow's, 

Arrang'd  with  nicest  care, 
Often  I've  stray'd  in  childhood's  hour 

Amid  the  roses  fair. 

Thou  wert  a  fav'rite  spot  of  one, 

My  own  sweet  mother  dear, 
Whose  daily  task  it  was  to  come 

Each  tender  plant  to  rear. 

Her  bending  form,  with  nicest  skill, 

Assign'd  each  flow'r  a  place ; 
The  hyacinth  and  daffodil, 
Came  forth  with  matchless  grace. 

How  oft  at  twilight's  pensive  hour, 

I've  heard  her  gentle  tread 
Supporting  in  her  roseate  bow'r, 

The  lily's  drooping  head. 

Each  weed  she  pull'd  with  tender  care, 
And  nurs'd  each  trembling  leaf, 

Till  all  would  flourish  strong  and  fair, 
In  their  bright  transit  brief. 

Like  falling  tears  the  dew  drops  hung 

Upon  the  leaves  all  night, 
And  sparkled  as  the  morning  flung 

Abroad  her  crimson  light. 

My  mother  !  oh,  that  hallow'd  name, 
Like  some  enchanted  flow'r, 


STANZAS.  299 

Around  her  threw  a  holy  Same 
Which  brighten'd  every  hour. 

'Twas  by  her  care,  sweet  spot  of  earth, 

Thou  didst  like  Eden  bloom  ; 
She  watched  each  flower's  unfolding  birth, 

And  drank  its  rich  perfume. 

My  father !  oft  I've  seen  him  stand 

With  rapture  in  his  eye, 
Look  through  these  flow'rs  to  Canaan's  land, 

To  brighter  worlds  on  high. 

Sweet  spot  of  earth,  thy  charm  remains, 

Though  all  thy  beauties  fled  ; 
A  guardian  pow'r  my  life  sustains, 

While  those  I  lov'd,  are  dead. 

Are  dead — ah,  yes  !  their  lovely  forms, 

Like  the  sweet  flow'rs  which  bloom'd, 
Are  swept  away  by  life's  fierce  storms — 

Are  crush'd,  decay'd,  intomb'd. 

Alone,  upon  this  fair  green  spot, 

One  crown  imperial  rears 
Her  steatly  head,  and  mourns  her  lot 

In  her  pelucid  tears. 

And  naw  within  my  father's  halls 

Which  onca  were  fill'd  with  glee, 
Silent  and  sad  each  echo  falls, 

But  one  lov'd  form  I  see. 

One  sister  dear,  upheld  by  him 

Who  rules  and  reigns  above, 
Whose  eyea  by  mem'ry  oft  are  dim, 

Whose  bosom  beats  with  love. 


300 


She  still  remains  on  earth  to  bless 

And  cheer  me  on  my  way, 
Mere  travellers  through  life's  wilderness 

To  heaven's  unclouded  day, 

Where  pleasure  rolls  her  living  streams 

Amid  celestial  bowers, 
And  noon-tide  glory  pours  its  beams 

Through  everlasting  hours. 


STANZAS, 


WmlTTEN  ON  READING  AN  ACCOUNT  OF  THE  LATE  DUKI. 


AT  WASHINGTON. 


HARK  !  hear  that  mournful  wail 

Break  wildly  on  the  ear ; 
And  see  that  widow  sad  and  pale, 

Bedew'd  with  sorrow's  tear. 

Behold  her  streaming  eyes 

And  her  uplifted  hand, 
And  mark  her  soul's  deep  agonies 

O'er  them  she's  no  command. 

In  anguish  hear  her  shriek 
For  him  she  lov'd  to  come  ; 

"  Wilt  thou  not  answer  when  I  speak, 
Come  home,  my  love,  come  home. 


STANZAS.  301 

Come  to  your  babies  and  me, 

And  clasp  us  in  thy  arms ; 
Let  me  once  more  my  Cilley  see, 

And  gaze  upon  his  charms. 

They  say  you.  're  dead,  my  love, 

Oh  God  !  and  can  it  be  ? 
My  smitten  band,  where  shall  we  rove, 

Thy  father's  face  to  see  ?" 

Heart  broken,  stricken  one, 

Well  may  your  sorrows  flow, 
For  fate  her  deadliest  work  has  done, 

Has  struck  her  deadliest  blow. 

A  nation  's  bath'd  in  tears, 

A  nation  weeps  for  thee ; 
While  on  a  sable  cloud  appears, 

The  goddess  Liberty. 

Not  with  a  laurell'd  wreath 

To  deck  the  victor's  brow, 
But  wither'd  by  a  murderer's  breath, 

She  bears  the  cypress  bough. 

"  Was  it  for  this,"  she  cried, 

"  Through  toil,  and  blood,  and  strife, 

Your  fathers  fought  and  nobly  died, 
And  yielded  up  their  life  ? 

Was  it  to  see  young  Cilley  fall 

Beneath  a  barbarous  hand, 
That  sorrow  spread  her  darkest  pall 

O'er  fair  Columbia's  land  ! 

Was  it  to  grieve  your  patriot  sires 
In  brighter  worlds  on  high, 

A2 


302 


That  you  thus  aim  the  rifle's  firea 
By  which  her  sons  must  die  ! 

I  can't  indure  the  sight, 

It  pains  me  to  the  heart, 
To  see  my  chosen  guardians  fight, 

I  must  from  hence  depart." 

Thus  spake  the  weeping  maid, 
Her  stay  was  sad  and  brief ; 

She  in  the  hall  of  Congress  laid 
The  wither'd  cypress  leaf. 

The  mourner  fled  away 

And  veiled  her  lovely  eyes ; 

Oppress'd  with  terror  and  dismay, 
From  scenes  of  blood  she  flea. 

Ye  rulers  of  our  land 

In  whom  we  put  our  trust, 

Disgrace  no  more  your  honor'd  band 
By  words  and  deeds  unjust. 

List  to  that  widow's  moan, 
And  hear  those  orphans'  cries ; 

Indignant  in  one  general  tone, 
Let  your  displeasure  rise, 

And  spurn  the  base  who  dare 

Destroy  domestic  peace  ; 
And  firmly  on  the  altar  swear 

That  duelling  shall  cease. 

Ye  children  of  our  God, 

Whene'er  you  bend  the  knee, 

Cast  your  kind  sympathies  abroad, 
And  human  suffering  see. 


303 


AUTUMN. 


THE  sad  days  of  autumn  have  returned  again, 

To  some  they  are  sweet  and  they  love  them  the  best, 

No  shade  of  spring's  festival  now  they  retain, 
The  buds  and  the  flowers  have  all  sunk  to  rest. 

The  songs  of  the  birds  in  their  green  bowers  of  bliss, 
The  soft  babbling  fountain,  the  clear  gushing  stream, 

Which  rush  from  the  opening  with  winter's  cold  hiss, 
Have  gladdened  our  hearts  and  fled  like  a  dream. 

But  yesterday,  summer  beamed  bright  on  the  hill, 
With  sunshine  so  fierce  and  the  insects'  night  song, 

The  lone  bird  of  night,  and  the  shrill  whipperwill, 
The  zephyr's  mild  breeze  floating  sweetly  along. 

Now  summer  has  gone,  the  brown  spoiler  has  come, 
The  leaf  turns  pale,  it  trembles  and  dies, 

The  groves  are  deserted,  the  tenants  have  flown 
To  climes  more  congenial  'neath  soft  southern  skies. 

The  last  sheaf  is  gather'd,  the  harvest  is  o'er, 

The  moon  turns  pale  'mid  her  bright  starry  train, 

The  moss-cup  and  lily  will  blossom  no  more, 
On  autumn's  shrine  wither'd  all  faded  and  vain. 

The  sunbeams  which  play'd  on  the  fair  folded  leaves, 
On  the  fields  which  the  flowers  so  richly  adorn'd  ; 

All  brown  dark  and  dreary  its  dark  robe  now  weaves, 
For  autumn  its  odors  and  sweets  have  purloin'd. 

The  autumnal  winds  howl,  and  the  torrents  loud  roar, 
Chant  summer's  sad  dirge  as  they  break  on  the  ear, 


304 


While  old  ocean  heaves  his  mad  waves  on  the  shore, 
And  clouds  and  wild  storms  around  us  appear. 

Sad  is  the  reflection  that  earth's  loveliest  things 
Must  fall  and  decay,  there  is  none  can  resist 

The  unsparing  power  of  old  time's  rapid  wings, 
The  beauteous  and  lovely  they  fly  like  a  mist. 

But  'mid  these  dense  shadows  there  's  sunlight  and  bloom 
When  beauty's  soft  spirit  descends  on  the  woods  ; 

Deep,  varied,  and  beautiful,  unwreathing  their  tomb, 
And  casting  their  tints  on  the  silvery  floods. 

The  gamiature  of  heaven  is  stretching  away, 
In  the  dim  hazy  distance  revolving  in  space, 

The  hills  are  all  clad  in  their  vestments  of  gray, 
And  the  hoary  dense  forests  in  autumnal  grace. 

The  intermingling  of  beauty  as  the  sun  he  retires, 

Of  the  earth  and  the  heavens,  like  the  poet's  sweet  dream, 

Sinking  slowly  from  sight  in  the  chariot  of  fires, 
In  peerless  magnificence  down  the  blue  stream. 

In  the  perishing  bloom  and  the  slow  falling  leaf, 
When  all  things  around  us  are  dying  away, 

The  head  sinks  on  the  hand  in  a  prospect  so  brief, 
As  mem'ry  recalls  the  events  of  the  day. 

As  round  the  lov'd  circle  the  eye  wanders  wild, 
Since  the  last  vernal  season  'tis  narrow'd  and  small, 

We  look  but  the  aged,  the  youth  and  the  child, 

Like  the  sear'd  leaves  of  autumn,  are  dead  to  our  call. 

Oh  !  may  we  by  faith  be  enabled  to  spy 

A  spring-time  immortal  whence  change  ne'er  can  come, 
A  season  of  joy  and  beauty  on  high, 

Undying  in  glory,  in  heaven  our  home. 


305 


THE    WRECK. 


HARK  !  hear  the  tempest  as  it  howling  flies 

O'er  earth  and  seas,  and  wraps  in  gloom  the  skies. 

See  hail,  and  snow,  and  sleet,  in  fury  hurl'd, 

And  maddening  waves  in  awful  grandeur  curl'd ; 

See  lofty  trees  their  yielding  bodies  bend, 

As  the  fierce  winds  their  twisting  branches  rend  ; 

See  nature  struggling  'mid  the  furious  blast, 

As  o'er  creation  her  dark  pall  is  cast ; 

Hear  the  wild  shriek  which  comes  in  every  form, 

High  in  the  blast,  upon  the  wings  of  storm : 

Its  thundering  roar  breaks  o'er  the  deep  wide  main, 

With  power  resistless  nothing  can  restrain. 

The  trembling  bark  upon  the  rolling  wave 

Points  the  tossed  seaman  to  a  watery  grave, 

As  high  they're  cast  upon  the  dashing  spray, 

And  then  engulfed  beyond  the  light  of  day. 

Alas  for  man  !  what  now  are  dreams  of  bliss, 

Of  home,  of  friends,  of  love's  "  sweet  honied  kiss  ?" 

High  in  the  air  their  cherished  names  are  borne — 

With  wild  despair  their  aching  hearts  are  torn. 

The  proud  ship  reels  as  deafening  tempests  roar, 

And  urge  her  onward  to  the  rock-bound  shore. 

High  dash  the  waves,  the  sea-bird  screams  afar ; 

Man  looks  in  vain  to  view  one  wandering  star : 

All  disappear  as  o'er  the  shattered  deck 

The  white  waves  curl  and  sweep  the  parted  wreck. 

Of  "  home,  sweet  home,"  of  friends  most  dear  they  speak, 

Mercy  and  home  'mid  closing  waters  shriek  ! 

As  down  they  sink  amid  the  deep  blue  wave, 

'Mid  caverns  drear  in  ocean's  coral  cave, 

Where  breakers  lash  the  proud  Atlantic  shore, 

And  chant  their  dirge  in  one  eternal  roar. 


306  THE   WRECK. 

As  the  fond  mother  trims  her  evening  light, 

And  while  her  babes  draw  round  with  faces  bright, 

Whose  cherub  voices  mingle  all  in  one, 

And  cry,  "  Dear  mother,  when  will  father  come  ?" 

"  Soon  as  the  spring  with  its  sweet  vernal  flowers 

Return  to  bless  us  with  its  sunny  hours, 

Then  from  the  blue  seas  will  your  father  come, 

And  fly  with  transport  to  his  own  sweet  home." 

While  yet  the  smile  sits  radiant  in  her  eye, 

And  her  young  heart  with  joy  is  beating  high, 

There  comes  a  wail  from  off  the  Atlantic  wave, 

Borne  on  the  breeze  from  ocean's  dreary  cave, — 

A  wail  of  sorrow,  as  the  whitening  sail 

Moves  slowly  on  before  the  eastern  gale. 

Can  nought  arrest  it  from  that  beauteous  one, 

On  whose  soft  bosom  sleeps  her  infant  son  ? 

Whose  little  daughter,  kneeling  by  her  chair, 

With  cherub  voice  lisping  her  evening  prayer, 

Repeats  the  words  which  love  can  ne'er  retain, 

"  Oh,  bring  our  father  back  to  us  again  !" 

Can  nought,  oh  God  !  avert  the  pointed  dart, 

That  time  now  brings  to  pierce  that  tender  heart  ? 

Ah  no  !  she  reels — the  fatal  truth  's  revealed, 

And  all  her  dreams  of  future  bliss  are  sealed. 

Closely  she  clasps  her  children  in  her  arms  ; 

Oh  !  who  will  now  gaze  on  your  infant  charms  ? 

A  mist  of  anguish  o'er  her  senses  roves, 

In  wild  despair  she  shrieks  for  him  she  loves  ! 

Deaf  is  his  ear,  and  nerveless  is  his  power 

To  cheer  her  in  this  dark,  this  trying  hour, 

But  One  can  soothe  the  anguish  of  her  soul, 

He  who  the  winds  and  waves  alone  control ; 

'Tis  He  alone  can  give  her  spirit  rest, 

And  calm  the  tumults  of  her  throbbing  breast. 


307 


WHAT   IS   YOUR    LIFE? 


I'VE  seen  the  lovely  infant  die 

Upon  its  mother's  breast, 
Seen  the  last  glance  of  his  bright  eye 

Look  upward  to  his  rest. 

At  morn  I've  seen  the  sprightly  boy 

With  bounding  ball  and  kite, 
His  bosom  fill'd  with  hope  and  joy, 

Lie  cold  and  dead  at  night. 

I've  seen  the  youth  in  beauty  drest, 

With  bright  and  sparkling  eye, 
The  rainbow  promise  in  his  breast, 

In  death's  embraces  lie. 

I've  seen  the  son,  his  parent's  all, 
For  whom  each  life-pulse  beat, 

By  honor's  artful  syren  call, 
Lie  breathless  at  their  feet. 

I've  seen  the  daughter,  whose  young  charm? 

Grew  brighter  every  hour, 
Within  her  frantic  mother's  arms, 

Yield  to  the  tyrant's  power. 

I've  seen  the  youthful  partner  bend, 

With  pangs  too  keen  to  bear, 
Over  the  death-bed  of  her  friend, 

In  mute,  in  wild  despair. 


308  WHAT  IS  TOUR  LIFE. 

I've  seen  her  kiss  the  quiv'ring  lip 

Of  him  she  lov'd  in  death, 
With  frantic  grief  the  nectar  sip 

With  ev'ry  short'ning  breath. 

I've  seen  the  husband,  father,  stand, 

His  soul  with  anguish  riv'n, 
A  cherub  form  in  either  hand, 

And  faith  fast  fix'd  on  heaven. 

I've  seen  him  yield  that  form  to  earth 

He'd  seen  in  beauty  drest, 
The  one  who  gave  his  children  birth, 

And  nurs'd  them  on  her  breast. 

And  I  have  seen  the  aged  die, 

As  stars  which  sink  in  even, 
Seen  the  rapt  spirit  upward  fly, 

Toward  its  native  heav'n — 

Stood  round  the  eouch  and  watch'd  the  flight 

Of  ev'ry  fleeting  breath ; 
Eternal  joys  dispell'd  their  night, 

And  grace  it  conquer'd  death. 

I've  seen  the  sun  in  splendor  bright 
Roll  through  the  vaulted  sky — 

Have  seen  his  glory  quench'd  in  night, 
And  ev'ry  glimmer  die. 

I've  seen  creation's  richest  bloom 
While  nature  round  me  smil'd  ; 

Seen  tempests  hurl  them  to  the  tomb, 
In  blasting  fury  wild. 

I've  seen  the  loveliest  flow'rs  of  earth 
Rear  high  each  crimson  head, 


MY  BROTHER'S  LAST  KISS.  309 

Beheld  them  in  their  earliest  birth 
All  faded,  pale,  and  dead. 

I've  look'd  upon  the  aged  oak 

With  branches  spreading  wide, 
Have  seen  it  fell'd  by  one  rude  stroke, 

'And  trunk  and  branch  have  died. 

Then  oh  !  my  soul,  if  such  is  life, 

And  such  its  transient  hour, 
Yield  up  to  God  the  unequal  strife, 

And  glory  in  his  power. 


MYBROTHER'S   LAST   KISS- 


WHILE  mem'ry  lives,  oh  !  in  my  heart, 
That  place,  that  spot,  that  hour  of  bliss, 

Will  never,  never,  once  depart, 

Where  I  receiv'd  my  brother's  kiss. 

My  brother's  kiss — so  pure  and  warm — 
So  fraught  with  love — so  free  from  guile  ! 

There  lurk'd  within  that  kiss  a  charm 
Which  blended  with  his  parting  smile. 

I  see  him  yet  as  he  was  when 

We  laughed  away  the  sunny  hours ; 

When  by  the  brooks  and  through  the  glen, 
We  ran  to  crop  the  opening  flowers. 

For  ever  fled,  those  halcyon  days  ! 

Ah  !  my  lone  heart,  well  may  you  sigh  ; 


You'll  trace  no  more  those  winding  ways, 
Nor  o'er  the  beauteous  landscape  fly. 

Can  I  forget  his  last  embrace  ? 

Can  I  forget  his  pleasant  voice  ? 
And  mem'ry  fond  no  more  retrace 

Those  sounds  which  made  my  heart  rejoice  ? 

Can  I  forget  the  soft  delight— 

The  transport— oh  !  the  rush  of  bliss  ? 

Can  I  forget  those  spots  so  bright, 
Where  oft  I've  felt  his  fervent  kiss  ? 

Whatever  yet  I  may  forget, 

One  long  remembered  thrill  there  is, 

Which  I  have  felt,  and  feel  it  yet — 
My  brother's  last — last  parting  kiss  ! 

Its  freshness  on  my  mind  shall  dwell 

Till  I  resign  my  fleeting  breath  ; 
My  lips  shall  of  its  sweetness  tell, 

Until  they're  still  and  cold  in  death. 


STANZAS. 


[THREE  bodies  were  recently  seen  floating  on  a  cake  of  ice  near 
Green  Point,  L.  I.,  supposed  to  have  been  among  the  number  of 
those  who  lately  perished  by  the  burning  of  the  ill-fated  Lexington . 
The  following  lines  whre  composed  on  hearing  of  this  event.] 

THODGH  beautiful  in  death 

Their  lovely  forms  appear, 
Yet  soft  affection's  balmy  breath, 

Nor  loye's  bright  pearly  tear, 


Can  ever  o'er  them  flow, 

Can  ever  o'er  them  weep, 
A  joy  so  pure  friends  ne'er  can  know, 

Nor  wake  their  marble  sleep. 

Rolling  billow,  still  thy  motion, 

Let  thy  current  gently  glide  ; 
Soft  thy  dirge,  thou  heaving  ocean, 

Over  thy  pelucid  tide. 

Fierce  tornadoes,  hush  your  roar, 
Let  the  breezes  gently  blow  ; 

Cease  awhile,  ye  rains,  to  pour, 
Lightly  fall,  ye  flakes  of  snow. 

Let  the  undulating  wave, 

Though  'tis  winter's  dreary  hour, 

Gently  roll  o'er  ocean's  cave, 
Where  beauty  sleeps  in  coral  bow'r. 

Dolphins,  who  delight  to  play 

In  yoar  elemental  flood, 
For  awhile  your  gambols  stay, 

And  restrain  your  merry  mood. 

Naiads  of  the  stormy  deep, 

Rock,  with  anxious  care,  your  young — 
Let  them  not  awake  to  weep, 

Nor  break  the  silence  with  your  song. 

Mermaids  with  luxurious  hair, 

In  your  pearly  rooms  below, 
As  you  weave  the  sea  flowers  fair, 

Chant  your  requiem  wild  and  slow. 

Dryads  of  the  grove  and  wood, 

As  you  tread  the  mountain's  height, 

Should  you  see  them  on  the  flood, 
Lift  on  high  your  beacon  light— 


STANZAS. 

Till  the  sea,  with  faithful  care, 

Shall,  upon  its  crested  wave* 
Waft  the  beautiful  and  fair 

On  our  shores  to  find  a  grave. 

For  there  float  upon  our  waters, 

Forms  beloved,  for  ever  dear  ; 
Fathers,  mothers,  sons  and  daughters, 

On  their  surface  cold  and  clear. 

Be  propitious,  oh,  our  Father ! 

Kindly  grant  us  this  request ; 
Let  friendly  hands  these  loved  ones  gather, 

Lay  them  in  their  tombs  to  rest. 


STANZAS, 


[THE  following  ballad  was  woven  from  a  story  written  by  Pro- 
fessor Park,  called  Plowden  Hulsey,  who  was  killed  by  the  acciden- 
tal explosion  of  a  sub-marine  machine,  called  a  Torpedo,  in  1814, 
in  New  London  harbor.] 

WHEN  loud  upon  Columbia's  plain 

The  silver  clarion  pealed, 
Warriors  upon  this  western  main 

Rushed  to  the  embattled  field. 

Along  New  England's  crimsoned  coast 

Albion's  proud  banner  streamed  ; 
To  humble  their  vainglorious  boast, 

The  eye  of  freedom  gleamed. 


STANZAS.  313 

Wisdom  and  strength,  and  art  combine, 

To  form  a  dread  machine, 
Beneath  the  waves  to  spring  the  mine 

Which  deals  out  death  unseen. 

The  fiery  car  in  caverns  deep, 

Where  ocean  rolls  its  tide, 
Assails  the  foe  while  wrapped  in  sleep, 

Spreads  ruin  far  and  wide. 

While  Bacchus  in  the  goblet  shines 

The  feverish  lip  to  lave, 
The  haughty  foe  destruction  finds 

Beneath  the  rolling  wave. 

While  on  the  fields  the  cannon's  roar 

'Mid  battle's  dread  array, 
Torpedoes  lingered  on  the  shore, 

Armed  for  the  deadly  fray. 

The  cry  was  loud,  Who'll  meet  the  foe 

Upon  yon  stormy  flood  ? 
Brave  Halsey  cried,  "  Here  's  one  will  go" — 

Straight  on  the  shore  he  stood  ! 

Although  upon  his  glowing  face 

Warm  were  his  mother's  tears, 
And  warmer  still  the  fond  embrace 

Of  one  he'd  loved  for  years  ; 

Although  from  her  bright  beaming  eyes 

The  tears  like  dew-drops  fall, 
Away  he  rushed  from  beauty's  cries, 

To  obey  his  country's  call. 

What  though  that  mother's  eyes  were  wild, 
Her  heart  with  anguish  riven  ! 

B  2 


314 


She  loved  her  country  and  her  child, 
But  gave  them  both  to  heaven. 

But  oh  !  alas !  for  that  sweet  maid, 

The  beautiful  and  fair  : 
She  wept  beneath  the  myrtle  shade, 

And  tore  her  raven  hair. 

Soon  as  she  saw  the  patriot's  fire 

Illume  her  lover's  breast, 
With  soothing  strains  she  swept  her  lyre, 

To  lull  his  soul  to  rest. 

'Twas  vain — he  gave  the  parting  kiss, 

And  held  the  maiden  long 
Close  to  his  heart :  how  short  the  bliss  ! 

And  glory — oh,  how  strong  I 

Upon  his  mother's  heaving  breast 

Awhile  entranced  he  lay  ; 
Then  on  her  lips  sweet  kisses  pressed, 

And  tore  himself  away ! 

Toward  the  shore  he  sped  his  flight, 

His  faithful  friends  to  meet, 
While  here  and  there  a  flickering  light 

Lay  mirrored  in  the  deep. 

That  fearful  night  was  dark  and  drear, 

Scarcely  a  zephyr  played  ; 
Dense  clouds  of  blackness  far  and  near, 

The  angel  death  portrayed  ! 

Into  his  bark,  already  manned, 

The  youthful  patriot  sprung, 
Which  darting  from  his  native  land, 

Quick  from  its  moorings  swung. 


315 


Oh !  was  not  it  a  thrilling  hour, 

When  that  young  hero  stood 
Firm  in  his  bark,  with  nervos  power, 

And  gazed  upon  the  flood  ? 

The  rattling  rain  in  torrents  fell, 

The  howling  winds  arose  ! 
His  soul's  deep  anguish  who  can  tell, 

As  he  drew  near  his  foes  ? 

When  prisoned  in  his  dire  machine, 

Did  none  for  Halsey  weep, 
As  down  beneath  the  waves  unseen 

They  lowered  him  in  the  deep  ? 

Beneath  the  Atlantic's  stormy  wave, 

They  left  this  exiled  one  ; 
He  sank,  oh  God  !  in  his  lone  grave, 

Unknelled,  unmourned,  alone ! 

His  friend  who  watched  the  proud  ship's  mast, 

Beheld  a  darting  light, 
And  heard  a  noise  amid  the  blast, 

Like  men  prepared  for  fight. 

Mounting  upon  the  billowy  height, 

Their  trembling  bark  is  driven, 
When  lo  !  a  blue,  unearthly  light 

Enwraps  the  sea  and  heaven  ! 

Then  quickly  came  a  startling  peal 
Than  thunder's  voice  more  loud  ! 

'Mid  whirlpools  did  the  proud  ship  reel, 
Engulfing  mast  and  shroud  ! 

Britannia's  sons,  a  grave  they  find 
'Mid  billows  dashing  high, 


316  STANZAS. 

While  like  a  feather  in  the  wind, 
Their  trembling  barks  all  fly  ! 

But  where,  oh  where,  is  he,  the  young, 

The  beautiful  and  brave, 
Round  whom  the  arms  of  beauty  clung, 

To  shield  him  from  the  grave  ? 

Exploded  is  the  dread  machine  ! 

The  awful  work  is  done  ! 
No  more  among  his  friends  is  seen 

Columbia's  martyred  son ! 

Though  seas  were  calm  and  sparkling  bright, 
Hushed  by  the  Almighty's  breath, 

To  that  lone  mother  all  was  night, 
Horror,  despair,  and  death  ! 

'Twas  darkness  to  that  lovely  girl — 

No  joys  their  rays  impart ; 
To  her,  oh  !  what  was  ocean's  curl, 

Maid  of  the  broken  heart  ? 

Far  down  beneath  the  deep  blue  wave, 

On  coral's  rocky  bed, 
Where  sea  flowers  bloom  'mid  ocean's  cave, 

There  rests  the  hero's  head  ! 

But  not  in  vain  the  hero  fell, 

Unhonor'd  did  not  die — 
A  nation's  groan  his  dying  knell, 

His  requiem  beauty's  sigh. 

For  many  a  long  and  lingering  year 

An  angel  form  was  seen, 
At  morn  and  eve  to  wander  near 

Upon  the  churchyard  green. 


THE     OMNIPRESENCE   OF    GOD.  31*7 

There  on  a  sculptured  marble  stone 

Which  bore  her  lover's  name, 
She  wept  her  flowing  tears  alone 

When  pensive  evening  came. 

The  silent  grief,  the  secret  sigh, 

Consumed  her  lovely  form ; 
She  sank  as  early  blossoms  die 

Beneath  an  April  storm. 

Where  the  young  willows'  branches  wave 

O'er  the  white  urn  of  love, 
They  sweep  across  the  maiden's  grave, 

And  sigh  whene'er  they  move. 

That  mother  !  calm  was  her  last  breath, 

On  God  her  soul  she  cast ; 
The  hour  her  son  encountered  death, 

Its  bitterness  had  passed. 

With  angel  spirits  round  the  throne, 

The  pure  and  lovely  rest ; 
They  roar  'mid  seraphs'  loftiest  tone, 

The  stainless  and  the  blest. 


THE    OMNIPRESENCE    OF   GOD. 


Go  stand  on  Alpine's  stormy  height, 
Whose  summit  hails  the  sun's  first  light, 

Girdled  with  clouds  around ; 
Or  where  the  cypress'  deepest  snade 
Enwraps  with  gloom  the  forest  glade, 
Where  human  footsteps  never  strayed, 
Nor  harps  JEo\ian  ever  played — 

There  the  Almighty  's  found  ! 


318  THE   OMNIPRESENCE    OF    GOD. 

Go  list  the  dashing  cataract  high, 
Whose  thunders  rend  the  earth  and  sky, 

In  one  broad  sheet  of  foam  ; 
Whose  bursting  waters  leaping  o'er, 
Roll,  rush,  and  break,  as  forth  they  pour 
Over  huge  rocks  with  ceaseless  roar, 
And  lash  with  sullen  pride  the  shore — 

There  'a  the  Almighty's  home  ! 

Where  tempests  sweep,  where  thunders  break, 
Where  lightnings  rife  earth's  centre  shake, 

With  flash  and  forked  form  ; 
'Mid  scenes  imposing,  grand,  sublime, 
Where  elemental  powers  combine, 
And  winds,  and  waves,  and  clouds  entwine — 
There  God  in  awful  splendor  shines, 

And  rides  on  wings  of  storm  ! 

Whfire  mom  smiles  sweet  through  summer  showers, 
Enthroned  within  its  roseate  bowers, 

All  bright,  serene,  and  clear ; 
Where  zephyrs  sport  on  every  gale, 
The  sun  repeats  the  pleasing  tale, 
And  flies  o'er  every  hill  and  dale, 
O'er  every  landscape,  every  vale, 

And  echoes  God  is  here  ! 

Thus  when  the  soul  its  orgies  keeps, 
And  every  passion  's  lulled  asleep, 

Save  that  of  holy  fear, 
Which  wraps  the  senses  round  and  round, 
When  heart,  and  soul,  and  spirit  is  bound, 
And  every  place  seems  sacred  ground — 
Who,  that  on  earth  such  peace  has  found, 

But  feels  that  God  is  near  ? 


319 


NAPOLEON. 


OH,  why  disturb  his  marble  sleep, 

Or  break  his  solitude  : 
Rocked  by  the  undulating  deep, 
He  slumbers  where  the  willows  weep, 
His  lullaby,  the  ocean's  sweep, 

Where  no  rude  feet  intrude. 

No  din  of  arms,  no  cannon's  roar, 

Disturbs  him  o'er  the  seas ; 
On  St.  Helena's  rocky  shore 
He  hears  the  startling  peal  no  more, 
Nor  sees  the  floating  standard  soar 

High  in  the  gusty  breeze. 

Then  let  the  exile  here  remain, 

In  dreamy  silence  rest ; 
No  more  upon  the  embattled  plain, 
Amid  the  dying  and  the  slain, 
You  see  the  conqueror  again, 

Nor  view  his  dancing  crest. 

Mountains  nor  rivers,  lakes  nor  seas, 

Shall  feel  the  hero's  tread  ; 
Europe  no  more  at  every  breeze 
Shall  start,  least  she  Napoleon  sees — 

The  "  thunderer"  is  dead ! 

Ah  !  let  him  rest,  ye  sons  of  France, 
There  's  none  can  fear  him  now  ; 
Closed  is  the  eye  whose  piercing  glance 
Could  lead  whole  armies  in  advance, 
No  more  he  wields  the  warrior's  lance, 
No  crown  adorns  his  brow. 


320 


NAPOLEON. 

He  sleeps  in  silence  and  alone 

Upon  yon  sea-girt  isle  ; 
No  tears  of  love  on  his  cold  stone 
Is  shed — no  widow's  thrilling  moan, 
No  friend's  deep,  despairing  groan, 

Rise  o'er  his  funeral  pile. 

Should  Europe's  varied  powers  combine 

His  obsequies  to  grace, 
Garlands  of  gold  would  they  entwine, 
Which  should  a  thousand  suns  outshine, 
His  deeds  of  glory  to  enshrine, 

They  never  could  efface, — 

They  never,  never  could  atone 
When  his  full  heart  was  riven  ; 

For  that  sad  hour  he  fled  alone, 

To  England's  monarch  on  his  throne, 

When  other  refuge  he  had  none — 
Through  fire  and  blood  he'd  striven. 

Oh,  had  the  haughty  monarch  bent, 
And  made  his  heart  his  home  ; 

Eagles,  their  golden  wings  had  lent, 

Round  the  wide  world  his  deeds  had  went, 

Angelic  spirits  had  been  sent, 
To  guard  his  kingly  dome. 

Now  let  him  rest — ah,  let  him  sleep 

Beneath  the  willow  tree  ; 
His  faithful  sentinel  shall  keep 
His  sacred  slumbers  long  and  deep, 
Where  wind  and  waves  unceasing  sweep — 

There  let  the  hero  be. 


321 


STANZAS. 


[THE  following  lines  were  occasioned  on  reading  an  account  of 
the  last  days  of  Bishop  Be ve ridge,  in  the  New- York  Observer.] 

AH  !  say,  can  memory  ever  sleep  ? 

Can  hearts  forget  to  love  ? 
Can  time  in  dark  oblivion  steep 

Joys  pure  as  those  above  ? 

Say,  can  true  friendship  e'er  expire  ? 

Can  memory  lose  its  power  ? 
Can  men  forget  the  soft  desire, 

The  impulse  of  that  hour, 

When  round  his  soul,  in  life's  young  morn, 

Love  wove  her  silken  chain — 
When  woman's  love  was  newly  born, 

And  Eden  smiled  again  ? 

Scenes  of  delight  can  man  forget 

When  infant  beauty  smiled, 
When  with  redoubled  joy  they  met, 

The  parents  and  the  child  ? 

Oh,  days  of  bliss  !  can  memory  fail 

To  dwell  on  such  an  hour  ? 
O'er  the  bright  world  sweeps  there  a  gale 

To  blight  so  fair  a  flower  ? 

Can  memory  cease,  ah  !  can  it  cease  ? 

Can  the  remembrance  die, 
When  angel  women  whispered  peace, 

And  soothed  each  rising  sigh  ? 


322 


Ah !  yes,  it  can,  it  will  forget 

Objects  beloved  and  dear — 
Those  scenes  so  blest,  so  truly  sweet, 

When  death  's  approaching  near. 

To  each  remembrance  man  is  lost, 

And  life  appears  a  dream, 
As  near  eternity  he  's  tossed 

Upon  its  chilling  stream. 
He  then  forgets  each  tender  tie  ; 

Life  and  its  pleasures  fade  : 
But  point  his  eye  of  faith  on  high, 

Point  where  his  hope  is  staid. 

And  though  he  may  forget  them  all, 

Forget  each  scene  of  bliss, 
Forget  love's  sweetest,  softest  call, 

Forget  its  honied  kiss. 

What  though  his  mind  becomes  a  wreck, 
Like  some  frail  shattered  bark, 

And  in  the  distance  life  's  a  speck, 
While  all  within  is  dark. 

Still  there  's  a  chord  whose  pulse  will  beat 

Even  in  the  hour  of  death — 
A  chord  which  springs,  if  touched,  to  meet, 

When  the  departing  breath 

Is  lingering  round  the  immortal  frame, 

Impatient  to  be  gone — 
Will  bound  with  joy  at  Jesus'  name, 

And  hail  heaven's  rising  dawn. 


323 


LINES    TO    S.    C.   NEWMAN. 


THE  busy  day  had  flown, 

Night,  with  her  ebon  wings, 
A  rayless  majesty  had  thrown 

O'er  all  created  things. 
At  midnight's  stilly  hour 

I  mused  upon  the  past, 
Until  a  strange  mysterious  power, 

O'er  me  its  influence  cast. 

My  heart  awoke  and  sung 

To  memory's  breathing  lyre ; 
While  lovely  spirits  o'er  me  hung 

And  fanned  the  hallowed  fire. 
I  little  thought  that  hour, 

When  walking  with  the  dead, 
A  soul  on  earth  would  feel  its  power, 

When  the  bright  vision  fled. 

But  oh,  to  nature's  harp 

There  are  a  thousand  springs 
Which  vibrate,  if  the  slightest  touch 

Sweeps  o'er  the  trembling  strings. 
Though  Alpine's  mountains  rise, 

And  seas  in  grandeur  roll, 
There  is  a  sympathy  in  sighs 

Which  melts  the  feeling  soul. 

Oh,  if  one  pulse  has  beat 

For  heaven  beneath  my  strain, 

In  death  the  thought  will  be  most  sweet, 
That  I've  not  lived  in  vain. 


324  LINKS   TO    S.    C.    NEWMAN. 

My  lyre  had  ever  slept, 

Had  sunshine  crowned  my  days, 

'Twas  adverse  winds  which  o'er  it  swept, 
That  tuned  its  sweetest  lays. 

Affliction  taught  my  soul 

To  feel  another's  wo  ; 
Could  both  the  Indies  round  me  roll, 

I'd  not  that  life  forego. 
For  there  is  a  bliss  in  tears 

The  world  has  never  known  ; 
A  joy  in  sorrow,  hope  in  fears, 

A  smile  when  all  is  flown. 

Could  I  but  catch  the  strains 

My  friend  had  sung  so  sweet, 
I'd  cull  a  wreath  from  laureled  plains, 

And  lay  them  at  his  feet. 
My  grateful  muse  would  soar, 

In  bolder  numbers  swell, 
Wing  her  bright  way  o'er  sea  and  shore, 

On  green  Parnassus  dwell. 

There  would  she  sing  his  praise, 

Who  paints  to  nature  true, 
And  pour  new  pleasures  from  his  lays 

Like  drops  of  morning  dew — 
Whose  thrilling  measures  roll 

Upon  the  gusty  breeze, 
Like  music  stealing  o'er  the  soul 

Upon  the  flowing  seas. 

Though  we  are  strangers  here 

In  this  dark  world  below, 
Yet  in  a  brighter,  happier  sphere, 

May  we  each  other  know. 
Where  poets  tune  their  song, 

And  strike  their  harps  of  gold, 
Their  sweet  enrapturing  strains  prolong 

In  numbers  never  told. 


325 


TIME. 


"  Time,  like  an  ever  rolling  stream. 
Bears  all  its  sins  away." 

TIME  is  a  stream  upon  whose  steady  tide 
Kingdoms,  and  thrones,  and  empires  glide  away. 
Heroes,  renowned  in  every  age,  pass  like 
Swift-speeding  bubbles  from  the  astonished  gaze, 
Down  his  oblivious  stream.     And  loveliness 
And  beauty,  in  all  their  glowing  charms,  float 
On  his  rolling  current. 

Proud  man,  adorned 

With  health,  girt  round  with  strength,  abroad  he  casts 
His  eyes,  and  cries  in  his  own  majesty, 
"  These,  these  are  all  my  own.     This  lofty  dome, 
Those  towering  spires,  this  spacious  amphitheatre 
Of  all  that's  grand  and  great ;  these  flocks  and  herds, 
These  singing  men  and  women  ;  these  timbrels 
And  these  harps  are  all  my  own  ! 

Move,  move  along 

The  giddy  dance  ;  raise  high  the  flowing  bowl, 
Sing  aloud  of  pleasure  !"     His  lofty  brow 
He  rears,  his  curling  lip  he  presses,  and 
Folds  his  arms  as  if  he  were  immortal. 
While  drinking  in  full  drafts  of  adulation, 
A  whirling  eddy  sweeps  his  sands  away ; 
He  totters  !  lo,  he  falls  !  and  where  is  he  ? 

The  warm  devoted  lover,  flushed  with  hope, 
His  bosom  beating  high  with  promised  bliss, 

c2 


326 


Feels  his  full  soul  rejoice,  and  in  his  laughing 
Eyes,  you  read  his  transport ;  as  gently  from 
Her  hallowed  shrine  a  mother's  breast  he  rears 
His  beauteous  bride  ;  as  the  sweet  rose  is 
Plucked  from  off  its  parent  stem  in  all  its 
Purity,  and  leads  her  forth,  sweet  gift,  from 
Her  loved  father's  hand,  in  glowing  pride  to 
The  hymeneal  altar. 

Ere  yet  the  rite 

Begins,  she  seems  identified  with  his 
Existence.     And  with  suppressed  rapture 
His  happy  soul  catches  the  breathings  of 
Her  parted  lips — lists  to  the  solemn  vow 
"  I'm  thine."     Then,  when  he'd  fold  her  as  his  own 
For  ever  to  his  loved  bosom,  and  bid 
Her  seek  her  heaven  there.     She  faints  !  great  God  ! 
She  reels,  and  in  his  arms  she  falls !     The  deep 
Pulsations  of  her  heart  art  still — no  breath 
Is  found — no  look — no  murmuring  from  her  cold 
Compressed  lips.     Closed  are  her  beamy  eyes 
On  all  she  ever  loved  ! 

Then  rose  a  cry 

From  the  deep  fount  of  wo — a  shriek  of  wild 
Despair — as  down  they  laid  her  on  her  bed — 
Her  bridal  bed — to  sleep  alone,  the  long, 
Long  sleep  of  death  !     Like  a  bright  meteor, 
Whose  little  day  was  spent — then  disappeared 
In  its  own  brilliancy. 

The  pleasant  boy 

With  hoop  and  ball,  bounds  o'er  the  dewy  lawn, 
The  pride  and  joy  of  his  fond  parent's  eyes. 
Upon  life's  flowery  bank  he  careless  strays, 
Catching  at  bubbles  as  they  blow  along. 
While  his  Lght  heart  is  filled  with  mirth  ;  while  o'er 


BUNKER  HILL  MONUMENT.  327 

His  lilly  brow  the  breath  of  love  soft  steals, 
And  kisses  mingle  on  his  young  fair  lips  : 
Forward  he  bounds,  the  gayest  of  the  gay — 
And  while  his  eyes  are  sparkling  with  delight, 
Away — he's  borne — and  strait  is  seen  no  more  ! 

This  is  the  mirror  God  holds  up  to  man — 
Vain,  puny  man,  he  scorns'the  beacon  light, 
Laughs  loud  at  human  wo  ;  and  on  the  tide, 
The  treacherous  tide,  he  rushes  still,  till  death 
And  judgment  stare  him  in  the  face  ! 

Oh  !  then— 

He'd  fain  return — worlds,  worlds  he'd  give  for  one 
Short  hour's  reprieve.    The  stream  rolls  on — he's  gone  ! 
And  thus  like  pebbles  on  the  clear  smooth  lake, 
Each  circle  widens  till  it  laves  the  shore, 
And  sets  its  impress  on  eternity  ! 


BUNKER    HILL    MONUMENT. 


AMERICAN    LADIES    PROVE    YOURSELVES    WORTHY    OF    YOUR 
PATRIOTIC    MOTHERS." 


LISTEN  to  the  thrilling  cry 

Borne  upon  the  gentle  breeze, 
Raise  the  monument  on  high — 
Beauty — now  the  moments  seize. 
To  you,  ye  fair,  the  honor  's  lent 
To  crown  the  noble  monument. 


328  BUNKEE  HILL  MONUMENT. 

Woman — freemen  turn  to  thee, 

Turn  to  thee  with  hearts  intent, 
Daughters  of  the  brave  and  free, 
Help  us  build  the  monument. 

Man  waits  the  kindlings  of  thine  eye, 
To  rear  the  lofty  spires  on  high  ! 

Here  was  Freedom's  stormy  birth  ! 
Here  she  drew  her  vital  breath — 
Rocked  by  the  whirlwinds  in  their  mirth, 
Nursed  by  carnage,  fire,  and  death ! 
There  she  dug  th'  oppressor's  grave — 
Burst  the  fetter  of  the  brave  ! 

Let  mothers  to  their  children  tell 
The  tragic  story  o'er  and  o'er, 
How  the  trumpet's  martial  swell 
Mingled  with  the  cannon's  roar. 
Tell  how  frantic  women  prest 
Infant  beauty  to  her  breast. 

Tell  how  oft  our  patriot  sirea, 

When  their  bosoms  glowed  with  love, 
Left  their  altars,  homes,  and  fires, 

Through  the  trackless  wilds  to  rove — 
Upon  the  embattled  plain  they  met, 
Where  their  sun  of  life  is  set  ! 

Freedom,  from  the  gilded  tower, 

Wept  to  hear  their  dying  groans  ; 
Peace,  within  her  sylvan  bower, 
Shrank  afrighted  from  their  moans. 
Now  we  revel  on  the  flood — 
Channelled  by  their  noblest  blood. 

A  lasting  monument  we  deem 
Bunker  Hill,  demands  its  due, 


BUNKER   HILL   MONUMENT. 

Based  upon  the  crimson  stream, 
Colored  by  its  purple  hue  ! 
Beauty,  lift  the  tearful  eye, 
Raise  the  monument  on  high. 

Look,  ye  fair  ones  of  our  land, 

Look  and  view  the  unfinished  spire 

Quick  ;  extend  your  fairy  hand^ 

Touch  the  fane — it  rises  higher. 

Martyred  spirits  on  you  smile. 

As  you  near  their  funeral  pile. 

Lovely  in  her  native  charms, 

Let  the  fair  Celumbeia  bride 
Take  the  bracelets  from  her  arms — 
Take  the  bauble  from  her  side. 
Beauty  needs  no  ornament, 
Give  them  to  the  monument. 

Lay  the  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine, 

Beauty's  offering  it  shall  be — 
Wreaths  immortal  shall  enshrine 
Woman's  name  with  liberty  ! 
Let  her  stand  our  nation's  pride, 
Where  the  gallant  Warren  died  I 

Go— pursue  your  work  of  love, 

Meet  like  Roman  women  true ; 
Lay  aside  the  hat  and  glove, 
And  the  honored  task  renew. 
Delighted  let  the  needle  ply, 
To  rear  the  monument  on  high. 

Let  faithful  memory  turn  her  eye 

With  meteor  wings  upon  the  past, 
Listen  to  the  matron's  sigh, 
See  the  maiden  stand  aghast  ! 
From  their  hearts  convulsed  with  wo, 
Hear  them  sob — beloved — go. 


330  STANZAS. 

Tell  the  tragic  story  o'er, 

Till  your  breasts  with  Spartan  fire 
Burn  like  patriot  hearts  of  yore, 
To  erect  the  honored  spire. 
Beauty  !  unto  you  'tis  given, 
Rear  the  monument  to  heaven  I 


STANZAS, 


WRITTEN    ON   VISITINO   THE   ATLANTIC   OCEAN   IN   A   STORK. 


IN  twilight's  sad  and  pensive  hour 
I  stray'd  along  the  sea-beat  strand, 

And  gazed  with  wonder  on  that  power, 
Who  holds  the  ocean  in  his  hand. 

The  tempest  raged  with  deafening  roar, 
The  storm  was  awful,  grand,  sublime  ; 

The  foaming  billows  lash'd  the  shore 
Which  they  had  beat  from  earliest  time. 

The  clouds  grew  dark,  the  winds  were  wild, 
The  heavens  in  blackest  sackcloth  spread  ; 

No  sun,  nor  moon,  nor  star  now  smil'd 
Upon  the  gloom  around  my  head. 

No  feathery  sea-bird's  scream  from  far 
Came  o'er  the  wave  to  greet  mine  ear — 

To  calm  my  fears  amid  the  war, 

That  loud  proclaim'd  destruction  near. 


STANZAS.  -21 

The  lightnings  blaze,  the  thunders  roll, 
The  earth's  deep  centre  seemed  to  shake  : 

All  nature,  too,  from  pole  to  pole, 
With  awful  terror  seemed  to  quake. 

The  cliffs,  the  hills,  the  mountains  round, 
Looked  trembling  on  the  swelling  tide, 

While  beasts,  and  birds,  and  solid  ground, 
Seemed  anxious  for  a  place  to  hide. 

While  omens  dire  on  wings  of  storm, 
Were  seen  o'er  Ocean's  waves  to  sweep, 

And  winds  unpent,  in  raving  form, 
Warred  furious  on  the  troubl'd  deep. 

Alone  I  stood  and  view'd  aghast 

This  grand,  sublime,  and  awful  scene  ; 

And  hoped  amid  the  angry  blast, 
Once  more  to  see  the  sky  serene. 

That  moment  did  an  angel's  voice, 

High  o'er  the  storm,  fall  on  my  (far, 
And  bid  my  trembling  soul  rejoice, 

And  cast  away  my  every  fear. 

"  I  hold  the  winds,  I  chain  the  waves, 

I  hold  the  thunders — lightnings  dart ; 
My  word  'mid  raging  tempests  saves, 

And  gives  sweet  calmness  to  the  heart. 

"  No  more  distrust  my  powers  divine, 

While  in  life's  dark  and  stormy  way, 
But  let  true  faith  and  hope  combine, 

And  point  thee  to  a  brighter  day." 

He  spake ;  the  tempest  cease  to  roar, 
The  clouds  disperse,  the  thunders  cease. 


THE   TEMPERANCE   BOY. 

The  billows  die  upon  the  shore — 
The  face  of  Ocean  smiles  in  peace. 

The  sky  is  clear,  the  moon  shines  bright, 
The  evening  star  hangs  o'er  the  west ; 

I  wander  homeward  by  their  light, 
And  find  with  joy  my  couch  of  rest. 


THE   TEMPERANCE    BOY 


"  DEAR  father,  will  you  go  with  me 

Where  the  people  flock  around 
A  little  flag  on  a  temperance  tree, 

And  call  it  holy  ground  ? 

"  My  uncle  Ben  and  all  his  sons 

Are  standing  'round  the  tree  ; 
They're  going  to  fire  the  temperance  guns — 

Come,  father,  go  with  me. 

"  Aunt  Mary  'a  there  with  her  young  boy> 

And  never  in  my  life 
Did  I  e'er  hear  such  shouts  of  joy — 

The  very  air  is  rife  1 

"  There  's  six  big  men  who  stand  and  speak 

Till  every  body  cries ; 
And  even  poor  old  father  Zeke 

Had  tears  in  both  his  eyes. 

"  Those  very  men  who  used  to  drink, 
And,  father,  curse  and  swear — 


THE    TEMPERANCE   BOY.  333 

I  saw  those  very  men,  I  think, 
Stand  up  and  make  a  prayer. 

"  The  women  smile,  though  every  eye 

Is  gushing  forth  with  tears  ; 
The  greatest  men  among  us  cry— 

And  every  body  cheers  ! 

"  I  want  to  see  my  mother  smile  * 

As  other  women  do  ; 
Now  all  the  hours  she  spares  from  toil, 

She  spends  in  prayers  for  you. 

"  Dear  father,  come,  and  go  with  me, 

There  's  a  paper  handed  round 
Which  makes  each  one  who  signs  it,  free 

Upon  that  holy  ground." 

"  I  cannot  go,  my  son,"  he  cried, 

"  My  clothes  are  old  and  gray  ; 
How  often  have  I  wished  I'd  died 

Before  I'd  seen  this  day." 

"  Oh  yes,  dear  father — yes,  you  can, 

They  had  a  temperance  creed, 
And  I  heard  good  Mr.  Delavan 

Say  that  you  can  succeed. 

"  He  says  there  's  men  from  Baltimore 

The  temperance  pledge  have  signed, 
And  thousands  on  old  England's  shore — 

And  many  more  inclined." 

He  pulled  him  gently  by  the  arm, 

While  the  breath  of  woman  stole 
Over  his  bosom  like  a  charm, 

And  fixed  his  wav'ring  soul. 


334  THE   TEMPERANCE    BOY. 

"  '  Hurrah !  hurrah  !'  oh  !  hear  them  cry- 
'  Hurrah,  hurrah,'  they  say  ; 

'  The  temperance  flag,  oh  !  let  it  fly, 
We're  sober  men  to-day  !'  " 

He  led  his  father  to  the  tree 

Where  the  banner  broudly  waved 

In  triumph  and  in  majesty, 
O'er  men  no  more  enslaved. 

Around  upon  the  gathering  crowd 
He  fixed  his  steadfast  eye, 

And  then  exclaimed  in  accents  loud, 
"  My  deadly  foe  shall  die  !" 

He  laid  the  paper  on  his  knee, 
His  face  was  bright  with  joy, 

"  I  sign  this  pledge,"  he  cried,  "  for  thee 
My  brave,  my  noble  boy !" 

His  son  beheld  him  write  his  name, 
While  tears  of  rapture  flowed  ; 

'Round  his  young  form  a  hallowed  flame 
In  all  its  pureness  glowed. 

Clasping  his  little  hands,  he  cried, 
"  Come,  cheer  my  father  too  ;" 

"  Hurrah" — a  thousand  lips  replied — - 
"  Hurrah  for  him  and  you  !" 


335 


STANZAS, 

ON  SEEING  A  PICTURE  OF  THE  SAILOR'S  WIFE'S  GRAVE  IN 
LADY'S  GARLAND,  THE  FOLLOWING  FACT  WAS  PENNED. 


THOU  moumest  not  alone, 

Young  sailor  of  the  deep  ; 
A  brother  fain  would  come 

And  on  the  altar  weep. 
One  like  thyself  oppress'd  with  grief, 
On  the  cold  grave  would  seek  relief. 

Loved'st  thou  the  things  of  earth, 

And  did  they  quickly  fade  ? 
The  scenes  of  joy  and  mirth 

The  shadows  of  a  shade  ? 
Does  thy  heart  bleed  o'er  blighted  love  ? 
Then  let  me  all  a  brother  prove. 

Bright  was  my  nuptial  morn, 

No  fairer  sun  e'er  shone 
Than  that  which  lit  the  dawn 

When  H.  was  all  my  own. 
A  fair  young  bride  of  yesterday, 
And  beautiful  as  flowers  in  May. 

Over  the  wooded  hills, 

And  through  the  shaded  grove, 
Beside  the  murmuring  rills, 

We  breath'd  the  tale  of  love. 
The  blue  waves  as  they  kiss'd  the  shore, 
Witness'd  our  vows  when  day  was  o'er. 


336  STANZAS. 

Soon  the  white  sail  was  spread, 
"  All  hands  on  board,"  they  cry ; 

Then  ceased  our  pensive  tread 
Beneath  the  starry  sky, 

To  see  us  weep,  the  pale  moon  veil'd 

Her  lovely  face  as  forth  she  sail'd. 

I  sought  the  bounding  main, 
And  'neath  love's  dewy  star 

The  past  appeared  again, 
And  Harriett  smil'd  afar. 

I  saw  her  in  her  bridal  dress, 
Imaged  in  her  own  loveliness. 

I  dream'd — my  sleep  was  sweet — 
I  drew  her  to  my  breast. 

Again — "  no  more  we  met" — 
Disturbed,  and  broke  my  rest. 

Yet  still  I  hope,  and  still  I  sigh'd, 

To  view  once  more  my  beauteous  bride. 

Borne  on  by  gentle  gales, 
We  sought  our  native  land  ; 

And  soon  our  flowing  sails 
Sped  by  the  whiten'd  strand, 

Where  oft  we  stray 'd  in  days  of  yore, 

And  listen'd  to  the  ocean  roar. 

The  dangerous  coast  we  passed, 
And  reach'd  the  wished-for  shore  ; 

My  Harriett's  form  I  clasp'd, 
And  thought  my  perils  o'er, 

Clasp'd  in  my  mind,  to  my  fond  heart, 

Resolv'd  we  never  more  should  part. 

With  buoyant  step  I  flew 
To  grasp  th'  extended  hand  ; 


337 


When  back  I  quickly  drew — 
Not  one  of  the  bright  band 
Appear'd  to  welcome  me — but  all 
Looked  sad,  and  tears  began  to  fall. 

Swift  as  the  lightning's  speed 
I  sprang  from  off  the  deck  ; 
My  spirit,  as  if  freed, 

Floated  a  mote — a  speck — 
Around,  above,  afar  it  fled, 
Then  waked  to  know  my  bride  was  dead  ! 

Was  dead — and  laid  in  earth  ! 

And  our  young  bud  of  love, 
Just  passed  her  hour  of  birth, 

And  flew  to  realms  above. 
They  both  were  dead  !  and  I  alone — 
Oh,  God  !  why  turn'd  I  not  to  stone  ? 

They  led  me  to  the  spot 
Where  the  green  willows  wave  ; 

And  there  alone — forgot — 
I  found  my  Harriet's  grave. 

A  little  mound  rear'd  by  her  side, 

My  precious  babe,  and  my  young  bride. 

What  was  this  world  to  me  ? 

I  sought  the  waves  again  ; 
Gaz'd  on  the  deep  blue  sea, 

And  wooed  the  heaving  main. 
And  long'd  within  its  glassy  breast 
To  find  ray  everlasting  rest. 

With  thee  now  let  me  weep, 

I'll  give  thee  tear  for  tear ; 
The  verdant  sod  we'll  steep 

With  memories  ever  dear.  '  _^ 
Where  shall  we  hapless  sailors  turn, 
Who  knew  no  home  but  beauty's  urn  ? 


338 


FILIAL   PIETY. 


"  DEAR  father,  will  you  lead  me  where 

The  pretty  violets  grow  ? 
And  where  the  mountain  daisy  peeps, 

And  yellow  cowslips  blow  ? 

How  long  before  the  flowers  will  bloom, 

The  lilac  and  the  rose, 
We  placed  around  our  Willy's  tomb, 

To  guard  his  sweet  repose  ? 

It  seems  but  yesterday  he  died, 

My  darling  little  brother ; 
Then  every  one  around  us  cried, 

And  you,  and  I,  and  mother. 

How  like  a  lily  pale  he  lay, 
Dress'd  in  his  cambric  bands  ; 

His  forehead,  oh,  how  beautiful ! 
And  his  white  waxen  hands. 

How  beautiful  the  lock  of  hair 

Upon  his  face  of  snow, 
Which  mother  used  to  dress  each  day, 

And  curl  upon  his  brow. 

I  wish  our  Willy  could  have  liv'd 

And  gone  with  me  to  play, 
I  miss  him  every  where  I  go, 

And  more  and  more  each  day. 


FILIAL   PIETY.  339 

When  you  are  gone  my  mother  weeps, 

Her  heart  is  sore  oppress'd  ; 
I  cry  until  I  fall  asleep 

Upon  her  gentle  breast. 

She  says  the  summer  soon  will  come, 

And  pretty  flowers  will  bloom, 
And  then  with  me  she'll  wander  forth, 

And  dress  sweet  Willy's  tomb. 

The  other  day  she  took  me  there, 

And  then  she  knelt  and  pray'd, 
And  on  the  cold  white  altar  stone, 

Her  own  sweet  face  she  laid. 

I  sometimes  fear  that  she  will  die, 

And  then  what  should  we  do  ? 
No  other  in  the  world  I'd  have, 

But  only  God  and  you. 

Come,  father,  let  us  both  return, 

And  homeward  bend  our  way  ; 
To  visit  little  Willy's  tomb, 

We'll  come  some  other  day." 

With  quicken'd  steps  they  sought  their  home, 

The  father  and  the  child  ; 
No  mother  smiled  to  see  them  come, 

Her  eyes  was  strangely  wild. 

"  Why  brought  you  not  my  Willy  dear  ? 

For  him  I've  waited  long, 
I  cannot,  will  not,  tarry  here, 

But  seek  my  bird  of  song. 

I  see  him  like  a  seraph  bow 
And  reach  his  little  hand  ; 


340  FILIAL,   PIETY- 

With  fadeless  flowers  around  his  brow, 
Pluck'd  from  the  '  spirit  land.'  " 

The  father  caught  her  to  his  breast, 
Entranc'd  awhile  she  lay — 

Clung  closely  to  her  place  of  rest, 
Then  soared  from  earth"  away. 

"  Thy  mother's  heart,  my  child,  is  broke 
Look  now  to  God  and  me  ; 

Oh,  heavy,  heavy  is  the  yoke 
So  early  laid  on  thee." 

"  Oh,  father,  father,  take  me  where 

Sweet  Willy  lies  alone, 
And  lay  my  mother  by  my  side, 

Close  by  the  altar  stone." 

"  What,  leave  your  father  all  alone, 
My  sweetest,  dearest  joy ; 

Thy  mother,  Willy,  Charley  gone, 
Who'll  care  for  me,  my  boy  ?" 

"  No,  father,  no,  for  you  I'll  wait 
Till  mother  from  on  high, 

And  Willy  calls  us,  then  we  both 
Will  lay  us  down  and  die." 


341 


THE    TROUBADOUR, 


THE  proud  Saxon  gazed  on  his  beautiful  child  - 

As  she  came  in  her  jewels  array'd  ; 
"  No  Norman,"  he  cried,  "  in  these  dense  regions  wild, 
Shall  look  on  her  charms  so  heavenly  and  mild, 
Though  he  come  on  his  war  horse,  a  knight-errant  styl'd, 

Nor  glance  e'en  his  eye  on  the  maid." 

How  deluded  the  Saxon,  he  knew  not  the  hours 

Which  love  had  made  joyous  and  sweet ; 
He  knew  not  how  often  in  Sherwood's  green  bowers, 
When  the  wild  primrose  bloom'd  'mid  a  forest  of  flowers, 
The  Norman  had  knelt,  disarmed  of  his  powers, 

And  bowed  himself  low  at  her  feet. 

"  Come,  haste  thee,  my  loved  one,"  the  proud  Saxon  cried, 

"  To  the  tournament  quickly  repair  ; 
And  I  on  my  palfrey  my  banner  have  tied, 
The  old  and  the  young  in  their  gladness  have  hied, 
My  helmet  and  shield,  and  thee  by  my  side, 

I  pant  in  my  soul  to  be  there." 

To  the  tourney  they  sped,  already  were  there, 

A  multitude  gathered  around  ; 
The  knights  of  the  garter,  the  temple  and  star, 
The  Norman,  the  Saxon,  the  hero  from  far, 
Appeared  in  their  armor,  equipped  for  the  war, 

And  assembled  en  masse  on  the  ground. 

The  arena  was  cleared — the  conflict  began, 
The  contest  was  bloody  and  long ; 


342  THE   TROUBADOUR. 

Two  brave  gallant  knights,  whom  all  to  a  man, 
Had  yielded  their  prowess,  met  now  in  the  van  ; 
They  hurl'd  their  bright  lances,  on  each  other  ran, 
Inspired  by  the  shouts  of  the  throng. 

"  Be  ye  Norman  or  Saxon,"  the  bold  Harold  cried, 

"  By  my  vow  no  longer  I'm  bound  ; 
The  one  who  shall  conquer,  let  what  will  betide, 
The  fair  Saxon  beauty  shall  have  for  his  bride- 
Such  a  son  in  my  halls,  my  glory  and  pride, 

Ere  nightfall  shall  surely  be  found." 

The  white  plume  of  Edgar  waved  high  in  the  air 

As  the  words  of  the  Saxon  were  heard  ; 
He  leaped  from  his  steed  with  chivalrous  care, 
And  met  the  young  foeman,  whose  dark  waving  hair 
Had  escaped  from  his  visor,  while  the  eyes  of  the  fair, 
Revealed  how  the  contest  was  feared. 

The  young  Saxon  beauty  looked  on  in  dismay, 
For  the  loved  of  her  heart  was  dismayed  ; 

'Twas  a  moment — when  bright  in  his  costly  array, 

The  shield  of  his  foe  'neath  his  valor  gave  way  ; 

He  conquer'd — and  hastened  his  laurels  to  lay 
At  the  feet  of  the  maiden  alarmed. 

1  he  young  queen  of  beauty  bowed  low  as  he  knelt, 

And  received  the  white  glove  from  his  hand  ; 
'Twas  a  Norman,  and  Harold,  though  displeasure  he  felt, 
Yet  true  to  his  word,  gave  his  quiver  and  belt, 
And  hail'd  him  the  lord  of  his  land. 

At  the  board  the  wine-cup  went  merrily  round, 

The  guests  were  assembled  in  glee ; 
Old  Harold  he  laughed  as  the  joke  fully  wound, 
To  think  that  the  knight,  on  his  own  kingly  ground, 
Was  no  stranger,  but  that  the  fair  Saxon  had  found, 

And  charmed  with  his  sweet  minstrelsey. 


THE   SPIRIT  LAND.  343 

His  lady-love  smiled  as  the  Norman  he  bowed, 

And  led  her  delighted  along  ; 
As  they  passed  to  the  altar  amid  the  dense  crowd) 
The  Saxon  looked  up  and  his  heart  became  proud  ; 
He  remembered  the  day  when  his  own  praise  was  loud, 

And  he  danced  to  the  Troubadour's  song. 


THE  "SPIRIT   LAND.' 


I  DREAMED  I  soared  'mid  fields  of  light, 
Above  each  twinkling  orb  afar  ; 

My  form  array'd  in  dazzling  white, 
And  on  my  head  the  morning  star. 

Immortal  youth  upon  my  brow, 
Enstamped  her  living  image  there  ; 

Flowers,  which  alone  in  Eden  grow, 
Were  braided  in  my  flowing  hair. 

Celestial  music  'round  me  stole, 
In  one  unbroken,  heavenly  choir, 

Enwrapt,  entranced,  all  ear,  all  soul, 
I  mounted  higher  yet,  and  higher, 

'Till  in  the  distance,  far  away, 

Throned  on  a  cloud  of  azure  blue  ; 

A  temple,  brighter  far  than  day, 
Arose  mid  hosts,  like  morning  dew. 


344  STANZAS. 

No  sun  was  there,  nor  full  orbed  moon, 
No  stars  dispensed  their  silvery  light ; 

And  yet,  more  brilliant  far  than  noon, 
Arose  that  temple  on  my  sight. 

Two  winged  ones,  as  near  I  drew, 
With  golden  harps  in  either  hand, 

Flew  from  the  city  in  my  view, 

And  whispered,  'tis  the  "  Spirit  Land.: 

The  "  Spirit  Land  !"  oh,  take  me  there, 
And  let  me  find  my  place  of  rest ; 

They  bore  me  upward  through  the  air, 
And  laid  me  on  my  Saviour's  breast. 


STANZAS   TO- 


HEAVEN  oped  its  golden  portals  wide 
And  bade  the  lovely  come  ; 

Sent  angel  spirits  for  her  guide 
To  bear  her  safely  home  : 

On  pinions  bright  they  swiftly  sped, 

And  hovered  'round  her  dying  bed. 

She  heard  the  music  of  their  lyres 
As  near  her  couch  they  drew, 

But  still  her  bosom's  warm  desires 
To  one  loved  object  flew. 

She  could  not  leave  her  house  of  clay 

'Till  she  had  seen  the  loved  —  away. 


STANZAS.  345 

She  wished  once  more  to  fondly  gaze 

On  one  for  ever  dear. 
The  sweet  companion  of  those  days, 

Undimm'd  by  sorrow's  tear. 
Her  spirit  waited  for  the  voice 
Which  ever  made  her  heart  rejoice. 

Her  burning  head  she  longed  to  lay 

Upon  his  faithful  breast — 
To  have  him  kiss  her  life  away, 

While  to  his  bosom  prest ; 
She  thought  'twould  ease  the  pains  of  death, 
To  have  him  catch  her  dying  breath. 

'Twas  sweet,  she  thought,  when  called  to  die, 

To  know  that  he  was  near ; 
'Twas  sweet  to  think  her  latest  sigh 

Would  murmur  in  his  ear. 
She  wished  once  more  to  grasp  his  hand, 
And  point  him  to  the  "  Spirit  Land." 

Death  could  not  draw  the  fatal  dart 

O'er  one  so  passing  fair ; 
He  could  not  stop  her  throbbing  heart, 

And  crush  the  fond  hope  there. 
The  foe  insatiate  quailed  to  see 
Such  mingled  love  and  agony. 

'Twas  love  undying,  love  divine, 

Which  back  the  arrow  kept ; 
'Twas  the  pure  light  on  friendship's  shrine, 

Which  never  yet  had  slept. 
The  hidden  power  of  woman's  love, 
That  made  the  archer  back  remove. 

Her  wavy  hair  dishevelled  lay 
Upon  her  neck  of  snow ; 


346 


Her  life  was  ebbing  fast  away, 

Its  pulses  waning  low, — 
More  breathless  every  moment  grew, 
'Till  the  loved  object  met  her  view. 

Enfolded  in  his  loved  embrace, 

Her  happy  spirit  fled  ; 
He  read  the  triumph  in  her  face, 

The  beautiful  was  dead  I 
She  clasped  the  blessing  she  implored — 
Beloved  in  life,  in  death  adored.        -, 

Take  now  one  lock  of  her  dark  hair, 

If  one  to  you  be  given  ; 
Time  never  can  the  gift  impair, 

'Tis  true  as  yonder  heaven. 
Keep  the  bright  curl  one  fleeting  year, 
And  steep  it  oft  with  memory's  tear. 

This  sacred  relic  —  take, 

And  wear  it  near  your  heart ; 

Oh,  keep  it  for  Maria's  sake, 
And  never  with  it  part. 

And  when  with  care  and  wo  oppress'd, 

'Twill  prove  a  talisman  of  rest. 

And  if  you  should  in  after  yeara 

Select  another  friend, 
Still  will  you  know  there  's  bliss  in  tears, 

Which  life  can  only  end. 
The  tear  of  fond  regret  will  roll, 
When  joys  departed  light  the  soul. 


347 


TWILIGHT. 


SWEET  is  the  hour  when  lingering  in  the  west, 

Departing  day  throws  'round  his  roseate  hue  ; 
When  gorgeous  vapors  on  the  mountain  rest, 

And  valleys  glitter  with  the  falling  dew. 
When  eve's  first  star  above  the  distant  main, 

Like  a  pure  spirit  from  a  holier  sphere, 
Hangs  in  the  beauty  of  some  hidden  chain, 

And  throws  around  a  radiance  mild  and  clear. 

When  the  pale  moon  up  the  etherial  height 

In  silent  grandeur  winds  her  mystic  way, 
Veils  with  a  cloud  her  lovely  face  from  sight, 

And  then  breaks  forth  with  more  refulgent  ray. 
When  in  the  distance  the  lone  Whippowill 

Pours  his  shrill  notes  from  off  some  friendly  tree, 
And  from  the  summit  of  a  neighboring  hill, 

Are  heard  the  echoes  of  the  Kata  Dee. 

When  ocean  rolling  o'er  its  coral  caves, 

Dashes  in  thunder  on  the  lonely  shore, 
While  on  the  cliffs  the  wild  grass  gently  wavas, 

And  bows  to  hear  its  everlasting  roar. 
When  the  young  sailor  on  the  flowing  deep, 

Firm  at  his  helm,  surveys  the  dashing  foam, 
Thinks  of  the  cottage  where  the  woodbines  creep 

Around  the  windows  of  his  "  own  sweet  home." 

When  wearied  man  plods  on  his  musing  way, 
His  scanty  earnings  o'er  his  shoulder  flung, 

Sees  'round  his  door  his  little  ones  at  play, 

With  words  of  kindness  flowing  from  their  tongue. 

When  from  his  home,  to  meet  his  fond  embrace, 
His  Ellen  hastens  with  a  joyful  bound  ; 


348  TWILIGHT. 

The  smiles  of  pleasure  beaming  on  her  face, 
As  husband,  children,  circle  her  around. 

The  mellowed  hour,  when  pensive  lovers  stray 

O'er  wooded  hill  and  through  the  shaded  grove — 
When  murmuring  brooklets,  as  they  softly  play, 

Listen  delighted  with  their  vows  of  love. 
The  spirit  hour,  when  o'er  the  dewy  earth, 

Memory  comes  dancing  'mid  her  shadowy  train 
Of  hopes  that  perish'd  in  their  hour  of  birth, 

As  vain  as  fair,  and  false  as  they  were  vain. 

To  well-remember'd  scenes  she  soars  away  ; 

When  'round  the  altar  of  domestic  bliss, 
Parents'  lov'd  smiles  lit  up  each  opening  day, 

And  children  climb'd  to  gain  the  envied  kiss. 
When  the  charm'd  cup  gave  forth  its  dreamy  draught, 

And  wrapt  the  senses  in  untold  delight ; 
When  morning  in  the  glorious  sunshine  laugh'd, 

And  evening  revell'd  in  the  moon's  pale  light. 

To  golden  moments  when  the  heart  beat  high, 

And  music  lent  enchantment  to  the  hours, 
When  love  was  breath'd  beneath  the  star-lit  sky, 

And  dew-drops  sparkled  on  ambroisal  flowers. 
When  fears  were  banish'd  and  the  heavens  were  bright, 

When  tempests  slept  and  whirlwinds  held  their  breath, 
When  thunders  linger'd  neath  th'  electric  light, 

And  hope  and  joy  disarm'd  the  monster  death. 

Bright  spots  on  which  remembrance  loves  to  dwell, 

As  evening  shadows  drape  the  world  around  ; 
Oases  green,  which  on  life's  desert  tell, 

That  here  and  there  a  little  rill  was  found. 
Rills  of  delight,  they  murmur  'round  the  soul, 

As  twilight  brings  the  lov'd  of  other  years ; 
Their  gushing  music  o'er  the  senses  roll, 

And  melt  the  senses  in  delicious  tears. 


349 


Like  healing  balm  rich  virtue  tears  impart. 

When  memory,  too  faithful  to  her  trust, 
Unlocks  the  secret  chambers  of  the  heart, 

And  there  surveys  the  beautiful,  in  dust. 
The  beautiful,  who,  though  they  sleep  in  death, 

Whisper  at  twilight  in  the  curling  vine,  — 
Float  through  the  air  upon  a  zephyr's  breath, 

And  'round  the  soul  their  shadowy  arms  entwine. 

We  clasp  the  phantoms  'neath  love's  dewy  star, 

The  tell-tale  planet  of  departed  joys ; 
Converse  of  hopes  which  glimmer'd  from  afar, 

And  met  the  blast  that  with  a  breath  destroys. 
The  blast  which  scattered  in  its  direful  wrath 

Contagious  vapors  o'er  earth's  fairest  flowers  ; 

Poison'd  the  fountains  playing  in  its  path, 

And  dimm'd  the  lustre  of  its  silver  showers. 

These  forms  etherial  on  the  spangled  sky, 

Teach  us  a  language  God  has  written  there ;      «  .  • 
Show  how  the  stars  that  gild  the  vault  on  high, 

His  love  and  glory  in  their  light  declare. 
They  bid  Remembrance  yield  to  Faith  her  wand, 

Faith,  heavenly  maid,  wipes  every  tear  away ; 
Mounting,  she  bears  us  to  the  "  Spirit  Land," 

And  opes  the  regions  of  unclouded  day. 

Delightful  prospect !  where  eternal  noon 

For  ever  shines,  "  where  skies  no  night  e'er  wear,1 
Where  the  dim  stars  and  the  inconstant  moon, 

No  more  are  seen  in  waning  beauty  fair. 
But  one  broad  stream  of  uncreated  light, 

Bursts  from  the  centre — Grid  himself  the  gaol, 
Dispensing  strength  tj  the  immortal  sight, 

As  day  succeeds  the  "  twilight  of  the  S;>ul." 


351 


SUBSCRIBERS    NAMES. 


Subscribers  Names. 


Place  of  Residence. 


Copies. 


Stephen  S.  L'Hommedieu,  Esq 

,  Cincinnati,  Ohio, 

50 

Richard  F.  L'Hommedieu, 

do           do 

50 

Samuel  Fosdick,  Esq. 

do          do 

20 

Col.  John  C,  Avery 

do           do 

I 

O.  Britton, 

do          do 

1 

Rev.  Mr.  Welton, 

South  Old,  L.  I. 

100 

L.  P.  Gardiner,  Esq. 

Troy,  N.  Y. 

25 

Benjamin  F.  Thompson,  Esq. 

Hempstead,  L.  L 

Mrs.  B.  Thompson, 

do          do 

Jacob  Vanderhoof,  Esq. 

New  York, 

,Mrs.  H.  S.  Vanderhoof, 

do 

Miss  Mary  G.  Thompson 

Hempstead,  L.  L 

Edward  Z.  Thompson, 

do          do 

Henry  T.  Vanderhoof, 

New  York, 

Rev.  Zechariah  Greene, 

Setauket,  L.  I. 

L.  Chandler  Ball,  Esq. 

Hoosick  Falls,  N.  Y. 

2 

Mrs.  Judge  Ball, 

do             do 

10 

William  R.  Mulford,  Esq. 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

10 

Mrs.  Cornelius  Sleight, 

do         do 

5 

Mrs.  William  R.  Sleight, 

do         do 

3 

Mrs.  Samuel  'Kipp, 

New  York, 

4 

Miss  Julia  Ann  and  Margaret 

Gardiner, 

East  Hampton,  L.  I. 

5 

John  Bray  Gardiner, 

Brooklyn,  L.  L 

1 

Rev.  Mrs.  Samuel  Ely, 

East  Hampton 

2 

Miss  Mary  Dayton, 

do 

John  Wallace,  Esq. 

do 

E.  Huntting, 

do 

J.  O.  Huntting, 

do 

Mrs.  Samuel  Miller, 

do 

Miss  Cornelia  Hunttington, 

do 

SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Subscribers  Names. 
Mrs.  Col.  Huntting, 
Mrs.  Benjamin  Huntting, 
Mrs.  Gilbert  Huntling, 
Dr.  F.  Crocker, 
Samuel  Sealy, 
Abraham  H.  Gardiner,  Esq. 
S.  L.  Gardiner,  Esq. 
Henry  L.  Gardiner, 
Baldwin  Gardiner, 
Miss  Betsey  L'Hommedieu, 
Miss  P.  Maria  Terry, 
T.  Hazard  Parker,  Esq. 
Charles  A.  Brown, 
Job.  Babcock, 
George  Babcock, 
Mrs.  E.  M.  Cooper, 
Mrs.  H.  C.  Fordham, 
George  Bassett, 
Major  D.  Y.  Bellows, 
Lemuel  Reeves, 
Miss  J.  Hudson, 
Mrs.  Poletiah  Fordham, 
Mrs.  Frances  Smith, 
Mrs.  Clara  Sleight, 
Mrs.  Augustus  Sleight, 
Miss  Laura  Webb, 
Mrs.  Col.  Tyler, 
Captain  John  Sweeney, 
Captain  J.  W.  Sayre, 
Mrs.  E.  A.  Gardiner, 
Mrs.  Dr.  King, 
Mrs.  Mary  Carll, 
Mrs.  Erastus  Bassett, 
Mrs.  George  Crowell, 
Mrs.  Roxana  Greene, 
George  B.  Brown, 
Anson  S.  Brown, 
William  Halsey, 
William  J.  Topping, 
Charles  S.  Lowen, 
Captain  J.  W.  Hedges, 


Place  of  Residence. 

Copies. 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

2 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

2 

do           do 

1 

df>           do 

5 

do           do 

5 

do           do 

3 

New  York 

5 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

5 

Riverhead,      do 

1 

Sag  Harbor,   do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

2 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

2 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

1 

Norwich,  Conn. 

1 

do         do 

2 

Bridge  Hampton,  L.  I. 

1 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

1 

do           do 

1 

do           do 

2 

Hunttington,  L.  I. 

1 

Sag  Harbor,     do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

5 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

353 


SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Subscribers  Names. 

Place  of  Residence. 

Captain  S.  P.  Briggs, 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

Charles  H.  Fordham, 

do             do 

Mrs.  Mary  Fordham, 

do             do 

Edward  C.  Rogers, 

do             do 

Miss  Caroline  E.  Raymond, 

do             do 

A.  J.  Tabor, 

do             do 

James  H.  Hamilton, 

do             do 

Lewis  L.  Bennet, 

do             do 

John  A.  Hart, 

do             do 

Elijah  H.  Payne, 

do             do 

Gilbert  H.  Cooper, 

do             do 

William  H.  Bush, 

New  York, 

O.  H.  Fordham, 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

Mrs.  Alden  Jennings, 

do           do 

Nathaniel  Tinker, 

do           do 

Miss  Harriett  Hildreth, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Eleazer  Latham, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Samuel  Phillips, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Emma  Fordham, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Parsons, 

East  Hampton,  L.  I. 

H.  B.  Hedges, 

do               do 

John  Hedges, 

do               do 

Abraham  Osborn, 

do               do 

Miss  Maria  Barns, 

do               do 

Mrs.  Edmund  Tillinghast, 

do               do 

Thomas  S.  Isaacs, 

do               do 

Thomas  B.  Hand, 

Amaganset,  L.  I. 

Mrs.  Maria  B.  Conklin, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Phebe  Baker, 

do           do 

William  C.  Hand, 

do           do 

Benjamin  Hedges, 

do           do 

George  N.  Stratton, 

do           do 

Talmadge  Barns, 

do           do 

Daniel  T.  Vail, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Betsey  Baker, 

do           do 

Catherine  M.  Edwards, 

do           do 

Silvanus  Parsons, 

East  Hampton,  L.  I. 

Mrs.  Dr.  F.  Lord, 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

Mrs.  William  Harwood, 

do           do 

Mrs.  Robert  Douglass, 

do           do 

Ephraim  N.  By  ram, 

do           do 

Copies. 


SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


354 


Subscribers  Names. 

Place  of  Residence. 

Copie: 

Dr.  J.  Dayton, 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

1 

•J.  Hemy  L'Hommedieu. 

New  York, 

1 

John  F.  Foster, 

Quogue, 

1 

Augustus  Floyd, 

New  York, 

1 

Henry  Gardiner, 

Quogue, 

1 

Rev.  J.  Woodbridge, 

do 

1 

C.  Howell, 

Catchabonack,  L.  I. 

1 

John  S.  Jessup, 

do               do 

1 

Henry  P.  Osborn, 

Moriches,  L.  I. 

1 

Catherine  Smith, 

do         do 

1 

Mrs.  Jerusha  Downing 

Brooklyn,  31  Hicks  st. 

1 

Mrs.  Sarah  Terry, 

Moriches,  L.  I. 

1 

Nelson  Terry, 

do         do 

1 

E.  R.  Bishop, 

do         do 

1 

Edward  D.  Topping, 

do         do 

1 

W.  R.  Howell, 

do         do 

1 

Miss  Nancy  F.  Havens, 

»        do         do 

1 

Samuel  Carman, 

Fire  Place,  L.  T. 

1 

Miss  Polly  A.  Miller, 

do         do 

1 

Mrs.  D.  Overton, 

Patchogue,  L.  I. 

1 

Mrs.  Theodosia  Roe, 

do         do 

1 

Miss  Georgiana  Ryder, 

do         do 

1 

A.  I.  Prentice, 

New  London,  Conn. 

1 

Edward  F.  Prentice, 

do                 do 

1 

Mrs.  Louisa  Leek, 

Bell  Port,  L.  I. 

1 

T.  P.  Carll, 

Babylon,     do 

1 

Alanson  Seaman, 

do         do 

1 

Clarissa  Hubbard, 

do         do 

1 

Elbert  Carll, 

do         do 

1 

Rev.  J.  S.  Spencer, 

Brooklyn,  L.  I. 

1 

A.  Spooner,  Esq. 

do      »do 

.     5 

Theodore  H.  Horton, 

do         do 

5 

Charles  Cook,  Esq. 

New  Town,  L.  I. 

1 

Rev.  I.  Goldsmith, 

do           do 

1 

Joseph  R.  Huntting, 

Smithtown,  L.  I. 

1 

Samuel  A.  Smith, 

do         do 

1 

George  S.  Phillips,  Esq. 

do         do 

1 

S.  L.  Griffin,  Esq. 

Suffolk  Court-house,  L. 

I.     1 

S.  D.  Silliman, 

Troy.  N.  Y. 

1 

Myron  Hamblin, 

do      do 

1 

C.  W.  Brown, 

do      do 

1 

355 


SirBSCRIBERS    NAMES. 


Subscribers  Names. 


Place  of  Residence. 
Troy,  N.  Y. 


Copie*. 


J.  W.  Fuller, 

J.  B.  Wallace, 

J.  A.  Starbuck, 

James  Maulin, 

O.  H.  Arnold, 

John  T.  Blatchford, 

G.  N.  Ensign, 

Alexander  H.  Kelly, 

Hon.  John  C.  Calhoun,  M.  C.,    Pendleton,  S.  C. 

Hon.  R.  M.  T.  Hunter,  M.  C.,  Virgina, 

Hon.  Thomas  W.  Gilmer,  M.  C.  Charlottenville,  Virginia, 

Hon.  William  M.  Gwin,  M.  C.,  Vicksburg,  Miss. 

Hon.  E.  Cross,  M.  C., 

Hon.  L.  Steinrod,  M.  C., 

Hon.  J.  T.  Mason,  M.  C., 

Mrs.  Huntting  Cooper, 

Mrs.  Arnold  Van  Scoy, 

Mrs.  Charles  T.  Deering, 

Mrs.  Mary  Stewart, 

Mrs.  Roxana  Cooper, 

Freeman  Smith, 

Mrs.  George  Halsey, 

Miss  P.  Havens, 

Mrs.  M.  Smith, 

Miss  F.  M.  Havens, 

Mrs.  Thomas  Foster, 

Mrs.  Lucretia  Brown, 

Mrs.  Phebe  Cooper, 

Mrs.  Susan  Vail, 

Miss  Phebe  Topping, 

Mrs.  Betsey  Smith, 

Mrs.  Chatman  Rogers, 

Mrs.  Hannah  Tinker, 

Mrs.  Mary  Stilwell, 

Mrs.  Nathan  P.  Howell, 

Mrs.  Elmira  L'Hommedieu, 

Miss  Gloriana  Howell, 

Gilbert  Howell,  Esq. 

Mrs.  Samuel  Fordham, 

Mrs.  Gabriel  Loper, 

Mrs.  Samuel  E.  Moore, 


Aagerstown 

,  Md. 

Sag  .Harbor, 

L.I. 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

Lancaster,  Mass. 

Sag  Harbor, 

L.I. 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

do 

SUBSCRI 

RERS   NAMES. 

Subscribers  Names. 

Place  of  Residence. 

Rev.  J.  A.  Copp, 

Sag  Harbor, 

L.I. 

Miss  R.  A.  Washburn, 

do 

do 

Joseph  Crolius, 

do 

do 

Charles  Van  Scroy, 

do 

do 

Frederick  Mercer, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Samuel  Denison, 

do 

do 

Jesse  Halsey, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Joshua  Eldridge, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  David  Loper, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Eliza  King, 

do 

do 

William  Taylor,  jr. 

do 

do 

Miss  Hannah  Williams, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  C.  P.  Conklin, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  E.  C.  Hedges, 

do 

do 

Miss  C.  A.  Hedges, 

do 

do 

Charles  Pierson, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Charles  Payne, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Eliza  Oakly, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Charles  Smith, 

do 

do 

Miss  Hannah  M.  Ross, 

do 

do 

Miss  Sarah  J.  Burke, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Job  Hedges, 

do 

do 

Miss  Mary  Ann  Hedges, 

do 

do 

Miss  Sarah  L.  Hedges, 

do 

do 

Richard  Smith, 

do 

do 

Thomas  Cartwright, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Judge  Osborn, 

do 

do 

S.  W.  Edwards, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Van  Cot, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Wickham  Havens, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  David  Hand, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Henry  B.  Havens, 

do 

do 

Miss  Clarissa  Payne, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Thomas  P.  Ripley, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Daniel  Smith, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  William  Jones, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Atkins  Eldridge, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Erastus  Osgood, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  N.  A.  Pratt, 

do 

do 

William  H.  Gawley, 

do 

do 

Mrs.  Elijah  Simons, 

do 

do 

356 


Copies. 

1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
2 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 
1 


357 


SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Subscribers  Names. 

Mrs.  Abby  T.  Munsel, 
Orlando  Beers, 
Albert  G.  Hedges, 
Mrs.  C.  M.  Rogers, 
Mrs.  C.  H.  Rogers, 
Charles  W.  Fordham, 
Nathaniel  Mitchell, 
Betsey  Sandford, 
Mrs.  Lafayette  Ludlow, 
Mrs.  Matsey  Cook, 
Mrs.  Mary  Topping, 
Mrs.  Judge  Halsey, 
Jones  Rogers, 
Mrs.  Hervy  Howell, 
Anthony  Ludlow, 
Lodowick  H.  Cook, 
John  H.  Chatfield, 
William  L.  Payne, 
Captain  James  Parker, 
Miss  Harriett  Reeves, 
G.  O.  Wells, 
Miss  Julia  M.  King, 
James  Beech, 
Mrs.  Cyrus  Hitchcock, 
Miss  Mary  A.  Worth, 
Mrs.  Mary  A.  Ulsifer, 
Miss  Mary  E.  Osborn, 
Mrs.  John  Deshon, 
Mrs.  Judge  Lanman, 
Mrs.  Elizabeth  Mount, 
Hiel  Parsons, 
Aldin  Thayer, 
Walter  A.  Wood, 
Tarry  Wallace, 
Seth  Parsons, 
E.  B.  Gilbert, 
Miss  Maria  Milliman, 
Samuel  Fogartie, 
H.  Sidney  Hayden, 
S.  L.  King, 
W.  M.  Howell, 


Place  of  Residence.               C 

opies. 

Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

Bridge  Hampton,  L.  I. 

2 

do                 do 

1 

do                do 

2 

do                do 

1 

do                 do 

do                do 

do                 do 

do                 do 

do                 do 

do                 do 

do                 do 

1 

do                 do 

2 

do                 do 

1 

do                 do 

1 

South  Hampton,  L.  I. 

1 

do                 do 

1 

do                 do 

1 

Upper  Aqueboque,  L.  I. 

1 

Leroy  Female  Seminary, 

1 

New  London,  Conn. 

1 

New  York, 

5 

do 

1 

do 

1 

Riverhead,  L.  L 

1 

New  London,  Conn. 

1 

Norwich,            do 

6 

New  York, 

1 

Hoosick  Falls,  N.  Y. 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

2 

do             do 

1 

do             do 

1 

Charleston,  S.  C. 

2 

do         do 

2 

do         do 

2 

Palmyra,  N.  Y. 

1 

SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


358 


Subscribers  Names. 

J.  B.  Fenton, 

Miss  H.  L'Hommedieu, 

Mrs.  Henry  Suydam, 

Mrs.  Gabriel  Havens, 

William  C.  Bryant, 

Mrs.  Frances  Whittlesey, 

Dr.  Webb, 

John  Smith, 

Mrs.  Charlotte  Smith, 

Miss  Avis  Gardner. 

Josph  W.  Moulton,  Esq. 

Mrs.  Leonice  M.  Moulton, 

Mrs.  Lewis  Hewlet, 

Mrs.  Augustus  Leggett, 

Miss  Janette  Cairns, 

L.  D.  Fairbanks, 

Miss  Columbia  Gardner, 

O.  B.  Goldsmith, 

Mrs.  Gilbert  Hunttington, 

Edward  A.  Hunttington, 

Miss  Caroline  E.  Conklin, 

Oliver  Mayo, 

Mrs.  Jacob  Case, 

Miss  E.  A.  Seely, 

Jones  B.  Fordham, 

William  Stennis, 

Jesse  Foster 

Stephen  Haynes,  Esq. 

J.  R.  Haynes, 

William  T.  Langdon, 

Johnathan  Starr,  Esq. 

Elisha  Mott, 

J.  Holbrook, 

Mrs.  Burnet  Mulford, 

Elisha  Mott, 

Lavinia  Mott, 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  P.  Brumley, 

Mrs.  Maria  Green, 

A.  B.  Davenport, 

Eden  S.  Latham, 

Mrs.  Mary  Ann  Vail, 


Place  of  Residence.  Copies. 


Palmyra,  N.  Y. 
New  York 
do 
do 
do 
do 

Hempstead,  L.  I. 
do  do 

do  do 

do  do 

Hempstead  Harbor,  L.  I. 
do  do 

do  do 

do  do 

do  do 

do  do 

Portland,  Me. 
New  York, 
Norwich,  Conn. 

do        do 
Shelter  Island, 
do 
do 
New  York, 


Brooklyn,  L.  I. 
do         do 
do         do 

New  London,  Conn. 
Rockaway,  N.  J. 
Hyde  Park, 
Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 
Roxbury,  N.  J. 

do          do 
New  York, 
South  Hampton,  L.  I. 
Brooklyn,  L.  I. 
Sag  Harbor,  L.  I. 
do        do 


359 


SUBSCRIBERS   NAMES. 


Subscribers  Names. 


Place  of  Residence. 


Copies. 


Rev.  T.  H.  Vail, 

Essex, 

1 

Mrs.  Giles  Buckingham, 

Norwich, 

1 

Mrs.  Nancy  Reynolds, 

do 

1 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Lee, 

do 

2 

Mrs.  Augusta  Green, 

do 

1 

Ebenzer  Close, 

Hempstead  Harbor,  L.  I. 

1 

Sealy  B.  Schenk, 

do                 do 

1 

Mrs.  William  Cairns, 

do                 do 

1 

Henry  Layton, 

do                 do 

1 

George  W.  Moulton, 

New  York, 

1 

John  Willis, 

Cedar  Swamp, 

1 

Dr.  Mitchell, 

Menhasset, 

1 

Singleton  Mitchell, 

do 

1 

Charles  W.  Mitchell, 

do 

1 

John  H.  Cornell, 

do 

1 

Dr.  O.  K.  Sammis, 

New  York, 

1 

Joseph  W.  Foster, 

do 

2 

George  Miller,  Esq. 

Riverhead,  L.  L 

1 

James  H.  Robbing, 

Sag  Harbor,  do 

1 

A.  B.  Davenport,  Esq. 

Brooklyn, 

1 

Henry  Shelden  and  Co., 

New  York, 

15 

Chauncy  W.  Moore, 

do. 

1 

Samuel  Hill, 

Sag  Harbor, 

1 

Rowland  Dawes,  A.  M. 

do. 

1 

Mrs.  Judge  Case, 

Southold, 

1 

James  G.  Leonard, 

Sag  Harbor, 

1 

Los  Angeles 
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